The Impractical Heart
by Pough
Summary: When a tiny virus sweeps through Tony's body, leaving catastrophic results, his team remains vigilant. Not meant to be a "ship" story, but strong hints of it.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This is my first "NCIS" fanfic, but not my first fanfic. Once upon a time, I was fairly prolific in the "SG1" fandom. Alas, real life came a callin', and I answered the call. That being said, real life is a classroom roster of 167, freshmen honors English, so if this story and its chapters aren't as rapid fire as you'd like, blame my students… Okay, let's just put it out there: This is WIP at its best, and it may take a while before it's complete, but I have it all finished. Unfortunately, it's all finished in my noodle.

A note of thanks to Secretchild who inspired me to want to write again. Her story, "Fine Is a Four-Letter Word," is brilliant. You should go read it!

And should Sazz ever read this—whumping is a thing to share. Don't you agree? And I shall do so with an inward attempt towards perfection. I miss you! Look for our word! I place it there in honor of all the words we've shared!

Oh, and don't own the characters, nor the original conception of the idea. Much like my own children, I only pay attention to them when I have time and it's fun, and I never expect repayment.

***************

"Grab your gear."

Ziva David rose, retrieved her gun and badge from her desk, and holstered them both. Checking his email one last time, Tim McGee reached for his backpack.

His head balanced in the palm of his bent hand, his mouth slung open, Anthony DiNozzo remained oblivious to it all. Jethro Gibbs stood motionless in front of his senior agent's desk, waiting for the man to wake up. When it became clear that Tony was deep in sleep, Gibbs removed the files from under his arm and swatted the back of Tony's head.

"Probie!" squawked Tony, groping his desk to gain balance. McGee glanced at DiNozzo, blinked, and threw his bag over his shoulder.

Tossing the files onto his desk and grabbing his own backpack, Gibbs said, "Dead male in Dismal Swamp."

"Pretty big place, Boss," McGee said. "Which entrance?"

"Couple of 'em," said Gibbs, and Ziva and Tim shared a look, knowing it would be a messy recovery. "McGee, you're with me to the Feeder Ditch. David, DiNozzo, take the Washington Ditch. Meet the local LEOs at the ranger station," he said, exiting the bullpen. "Today would be nice, DiNozzo."

In Gibbs' wake, Tony DiNozzo rubbed the sleep out of his eye and found he had also rubbed spit _into_ his eye, which he tried to wipe away with his tie. Ziva smirked and shook her head. "Perhaps I should drive," she said.

Tony stared at her, and Ziva's brow furrowed. About to defend her opinion, Ziva stopped short when Tony suddenly blurted out, "What?"

"I told you I will drive," she said, speaking slow, as much to shame him as to ascertain his actual condition. "Like Gibbs said, today would be nice."

Tony smacked his lips several times, closed one eye, and nodded. "Yeah. Okay." He stood, stretched his neck, and said, "Where are we going?"

Ziva rounded the side of her desk, her gear slung over her shoulder, and prepared to lay into him. However, within three feet of her partner, she took in the haggard appearance, the dark, smudged eyes, and his gaunt, pinched features, and Ziva stopped short. "Tony? Are you feeling well?"

Again, DiNozzo simply blinked. "Why would you ask that?"

"Because you look like you've been on a three-day binder," she told him. _When had he lost so much weight?_

"Bender, Ziva. A three-day bender."

"Now, how does that make anymore sense than binder?" Ziva demanded, her fists anchored into her hips.

"It, uh…" Tony began, but for the life of him, couldn't come up with an answer.

Which was disconcerting. Lately, it seemed his mind wasn't fully engaged. It bothered him tremendously that it was taking him longer to comprehend the easiest concepts. But in whom could he confide? You didn't walk up to Gibbs and say, "Hey, boss, my head's not quite hitting on all cylinders these days," unless you wanted a quick smack to the cylinders. So he muddled on, as always, hoping he could cover his feelings of ineptitude with bluster and charm.

Even those seemed diminished recently.

"Tony?" Ziva said again, her hand on his arm. When Tony looked up from the spot on his desk where he'd been staring, and when he realized just how long he'd been staring at the spot, he found another awful example of how his life had changed—that ever-present concern in Ziva's eyes, guarded as it was. He hated it. He was supposed to be the one in charge; he was supposed to be the strong, capable one. Ziva's eyes told him he was weak and getting weaker, and that tore at him.

On with the bluster and charm.

Tony plastered on a high-wattage smile, laughed, and threw open his desk drawer. "You try not to show how much you care, Officer David. And ya know," he said, retrieving his gun, his badge, and his cell phone from the compartment, "usually I totally believe it, but once in a while, that big, ol' heart of yours can't help but be taken in by the DiNozzo."

She didn't buy it, but if Tony was going to go all out to mask whatever it was that he didn't want her to know, then she'd respect his attempt. "Yes," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "you are irresistible. Can we go?"

"Yes, Ziiiiiiva, we can." He bent to pick up his backpack and clutched at the side of his desk, hoping Ziva wasn't watching him. If she were, then she'd question him again, ask him why he seemed to be taking so long, why he was holding the side of his desk so tightly, why he had his eyes screwed shut, why he could hardly catch his breath, why, when he would stand up in the next seconds, did he list so, wobble…

"Tony!" came Ziva's bark halfway down the hall. Relieved, Tony took his time to stand, to breathe deep, to wait for the room to stop its tilt and oscillation.

Tony flipped his backpack over his shoulder, and threw on his sunglasses. One more breath, hardly as much air as he was hoping to get, and he followed Ziva's lead out to the car.

*****

She didn't say anything when he turned up at the car out of breath. She didn't say anything when he finally poured himself into the passenger side, hunkered down, and fell asleep. She didn't say anything when she noticed the sheen of sweat on his forehead, above his lip, and on his neck.

But, Ziva would say something. With another twenty minutes or so before they reached the swamp, there would be time to ask all sorts of questions. Yes, she would ask. It was her responsibility to ask, she rationalized. _I am his partner, and as such, it would be irresponsible of me to not know his condition before reporting to a potentially dangerous crime scene. _Trust your partner—that was the first rule in the law enforcement book, and how could she trust a partner who might be compromised? It was incumbent upon her, truly, to find out if she could rely on him, if she could trust him if things turned ugly. Actually, it was selfish of Tony to keep pertinent information like his health from her. Typical Tony, she mused, and clenched the steering wheel more tightly than necessary. Oh, yes, she would ask. She would ask what, exactly, his problem was.

She would ask why he thought it was okay to keep your partner in the dark. She would ask questions like why did he make her look so bad by being so forgetful? She would ask questions like "Did you sleep in that suit?" Like, why did he constantly cough, a dry, hacking cough that caused him pain; that caused him to grasp the front of his shirt or the side of his chair? Why did he seem to be thin, emaciated, with pale skin that seemed to be pulled against his bones like a silk sail against rigging lines? Why did he stop in the middle of the hall when he thought no one was looking and brace himself, one hand on his hip, one against the wall, just for a moment, just until he could plaster the veneer of "happy-go-lucky Tony" on his face?

And then she would ask herself questions, like why did she worry about him? Why did she find herself at night, long past the time she should be asleep, trying to fit the discordant pieces together? Why was her day so utterly disjointed with concern? And why didn't anyone else seem to notice what she saw?

"Take the next exit."

Jarred out of her thoughts, Ziva glanced at Tony, and asked, "How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough to know we're about to miss our exit," he said gesturing to the impending exit ramp.

Ziva jerked the wheel; Tony grasped for the dashboard. She thought it was almost a relief that with this one exchange she had been diverted from her raw emotions to her more manageable annoyance with Tony. "I think I know where I'm going, thank you very much."

"Yeah, I can see that," he said, adjusting his sunglasses. "We tryin' to establish some land-speed record, David?"

"What is your problem?" There. She had asked. And it hadn't been as hard as she thought it would be.

"Well, aside from the fact that we're in a 55 zone, and you're going approximately the speed of a MiG, I'm fine."

He could be so evasive, she thought. She would try again. "I have noticed lately that you look like you are at death's stoop."

Tony began to correct her, thought better of it, and coughed. "I can't die, not yet," he said, purposefully, if not awkwardly, changing the subject. "I bought a new Armani last week."

"I'm serious, Tony," she said.

"So am I, Ziva. Charcoal grey. Three-piece. Windowpane. Gorgeous. It's at the tailor's. Plus, it'll take me three more months to pay it off, but if I do show up at…death's door, I'll look good."

"I am not making myself clear," she said, easing off the gas, coming to a stop along the side of the highway. "I have noticed that you…do not…look well. And I believe," she continued, finding she was too uncomfortable with that much sincerity, "it is affecting your work."

"Has Gibbs said anything to you?" Tony asked, worried.

"No, but…" This was intolerable, she thought, so she threw her hands in the air, and said, "I am concerned about you, okay? There. Are you happy?"

Taken aback, Tony said, "Okay, well. First off, I'm fine. Second, um, thank you?"

"You're not fine. You haven't been fine for months."

It bothered him that his personal challenges were so readily visible, and he supposed it was time for a modicum of truth. "Okay, fine. Here's the deal."

"Do not attempt to buffalo me."

"You get buffalo idioms, but not death idioms. Fascinating."

"DiNozzo!"

"Fine!" Of all people, Ziva should have known how much he hated personal talks, but here he was, boxed in, and he was going to offer her some insight. A little. "You know when I had the flu a couple months ago?"

"Yes, I remember."

"I just…it just feels like I haven't been able to shake it, that's all. Can we go now?"

"Have you seen your physician?"

"And waste time and money for him to tell me it's a virus?" Tony said, and Ziva eyed him, trying on the thought, weighing the truth of it. It felt honest. "No, I have other ways to spend my money."

Ziva felt comfortable enough in this truth that she could continue their trek. She put the car into drive, and said, "Yes, like wasting it on over-priced suits."

"See, now, if you knew what a fine piece of cloth felt like—"

"I know what fine cloth feels like!"

"Then you'd know—"

"I'll have YOU know that I just bought a…fine piece of cloth," Ziva stated, eyeing her partner sidelong. This piqued Tony's interest. He shifted his position, smiled, and waited for her further explanation. Ziva rolled her eyes, and began. "I recently purchased a Vera Wang gown. Long, silk, plunging neckline and back."

Tony closed his eyes, held up his finger, and said, "Wait. Give me a minute." He pulled one face after another, finally resting on a scandalous smile. "Okay. Color?"

"It is…um, oh, I cannot remember the English," she said, waggling her fingers before her face. "Xatzeel in Hebrew; aubergine in French. What is that color?!"

"I don't remember xatzeel being one of the crayons in my 64 box," Tony kidded. "Basic hue?"

"Purple."

"Purple."

"But not."

"Blue?"

"No."

"Yellow?"

"How is yellow like purple?" she asked, and in her frustration, Tony knew the conversation about his health was long over.

"Okay, forget the color. Let's get back to the plunging neckline," he said, which elicited a quick jab from Ziva. She glared at him, then laughed. "Here's what I'm thinking—I don't know that Gibbs will find it office-appropriate, so you should probably wear it over to my apartment so I can give it a look-see. Call it a professional courtesy."

"Professional courtesy," Ziva laughed. Would she ever tell him that his obnoxious, sophomoric, inappropriate comments sent a thrum of excitement through her? Never. Their taunts, their razor-thin margin between chemistry and carnage was something she enjoyed. Why ruin it with honesty? "Oh, you would like that, wouldn't you?"

"More than life itself," Tony stated, imagining her in this dress, sitting next to him, her long, black hair pooling on her shoulders, the drape of the fabric hardly able to conceal a soft—

"Stop dressing me with your eyes," she scolded him, and for the first time, Tony knew she had not confused the saying.

He smiled and returned his view out the front window, amused that she was able to predict him so well. "So, what's the occasion?"

"The Israeli embassy is having a state dinner. I have been invited."

"Oh, yeah? Who you going with?"

"Just me and Vera," she said, flirting with him.

Tony rounded out his lips, and whispered, "Girl on girl action. Very hot."

"I'm glad you approve," Ziva said.

"Oh, I more than approve, I…" But before he could answer, he felt a thump, a pressure in his veins, one that he was becoming more familiar with. He threw two fingers to his carotid artery, and breathed deep.

"I often have this affect on men," Ziva laughed.

His heart raced like a roulette wheel, ticking off place markers in quick succession. Tickticktickticktick… Breathe, he told himself. Breathe…

When no salacious remark came back, when Ziva realized that Tony was not exaggerating his reaction, she turned to him, taking only quick glances at the road now and again. "Tony?"

He held up one finger to her. Wait, he meant to say. He closed his eyes. Forced himself to remain calm. Breathe. Tickticktickticktick…

Ziva pulled over again on the side of the highway, tires crunching the gravel. "Tony?"

"Hold on," he managed. Lifting his chin, Tony expanded his chest, and inhaled slowly. And still his heart fluttered by—Ticktickticktick...

"Tell me what's happening, Tony."

He balled up one hand—ticktickticktick—lifted it in the air—ticktick tickticktick—and let it—ticktick ticktick ticktick—unfurl, open. And that was it; the roulette wheel had come to a stop.

"There," he said, inhaling sharply. He shrugged his shoulder, as if nothing had happened, offered up a ubiquitous smile, and really hoped Ziva would let it go.

"What was that all about?" she asked, eyeing him carefully.

"It's no big deal. Every once in a while my heart kind of goes…vriiingggg!" he said. He didn't really know a better way of explaining it.

"Do I need to call an ambulance?"

"Do I look like you need to call an ambulance?" he asked, and when he was pretty sure she'd answer in the affirmative, he waved off his question and her concern. "I'm fine. It's over."

"This happens often?"

"Every now and then," he said, a sin of omission, he knew. "Listen, it's no big deal. I checked with Ducky. He said…well, he said a lot, including a riveting tale about a time on a Ugandan—"

"Tony!"

"Bottom line—it's nothing to worry about. He said it's probably too much caffeine." Ziva didn't believe it, not for a minute. For his part, Tony only barely thought it was plausible. However, much of his life was based on plausibility, including plausible deniability. Did he drink enough coffee to cause his heart to peel out of control? Probably not. But when a doctor offers it up as a reason for such a symptom, who was DiNozzo to scoff at a diagnosis? "Look, I appreciate the concern. I do. But if we don't get to the scene, Gibbs will—"

"Yes, I agree," she said. She eyed him one last time before easing off the shoulder and back into traffic. "I will be talking to Ducky, you understand."

"I have no doubt."

A couple more miles to the Dismal swamp, and Tony knew he'd need it to rest. When had talking become so exhausting?


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Thank you to all who bookmarked, reviewed, or just left me lovely messages, especially those in the ol' neighborhood!

A little more exposition, more kindling on the fire, as it were. Hope you enjoy it. Next chapter should be posted sooner than this one. I hope…

*****

One after another, they filed into the bullpen, a bit grimy, some mud crusting their shoes. Tim thought he should be inured to these types of crime scenes by now. But, a bag of hands and feet dug up by a coyote in one section of the Dismal Swamp (appropriate in its nomenclature, particularly in this instance, they had all said) and a badly decomposed torso found by a hiker in a different section never amounted for the same old-same old days his former MIT classmates were having in Silicon Valley. At least he didn't think they had those types of days.

What made it just that much more unpalatable, beyond the mutilation and the still missing head, was that the corpse had been garroted by a lanyard, and although the ID card had been removed, the lanyard itself, with NCIS emblazoned upon it, remained wrapped around the trunk of a neck. It wasn't until hands and wrists were brought together late in the afternoon that the team was able to recognize a key piece of body art, disrupted by the dismemberment.

"Wait a minute," Tim had said, eyeing the joining of hand and wrist. "I think I recognize that tat." He squatted down next to the corpse, brushed aside some grime on the inside of the man's wrist with his gloved hand, and nodded. "Yeah, see this? This is the symbol for loyalty." He removed the grime from the other hand and wrist, and said, "And here. This is the symbol for faithfulness."

Gibbs leaned over the body and took a look. "Fidelity, actually."

Tim took a moment to allow the memory resurface of Gibbs' fluency in Chinese, and then said, "Right. Anyhow, yeah, I know this ink. I know this guy. Ducky, Tony, you know this guy."

"I'm not really in the habit of checking out men's body art, McConfused," Tony said, adjusting his hat, while Tim rolled his eyes.

Ducky stood, peered over the corpse, his hand to his jaw. "I dare say those tattoos do look rather familiar."

"They should," Tim said. "He's the new intern in information services. You know him. He was in Abby's lab showing off his new art. The three of us walked in on them. Well, him, showing it to Abby. He has another one from the University of Illinois on his pectoral. See? Right there."

Tony sneered. "Gees, Timmy, I hope he bought you breakfast."

"That's enough, DiNozzo," Gibbs warned. He turned to McGee, and asked, "You got a name on our intern?"

"No, but Abby would know it."

"The real question, then, becomes to whom was he loyal and faithful?" Ziva said.

"We'll find out. Let's bag him and meet back at the office. McGee, have that—"

"—Name by the time we get back. Got it, Boss."

"David, DiNozzo, check the Ranger's station for—"

"—security tapes," Tony said. "Way ahead of you, Boss. They're being uploaded as we speak."

"All right, then. What are we standing around here for?"

With that, they dispersed. Half an hour later, each phone buzzed with an incoming message—their corpse was Justin Chen, BS from University of Illinois in electrical engineering and computer science; working toward an advanced degree in international relations through Georgetown. An unpaid intern in the NCIS Computer Investigations and Operations department.

"No wonder McGigabyte knew him," Tony said, slinking down into his seat, his arms crossed, readying for his mid-afternoon nap.

"So, now that we're alone," Ziva began.

"Okay, I'm a little tired," Tony said, lasciviously, "but if you'll be gentle…"

Undeterred, Ziva went on. "I think we should resume our discussion about your condition."

"My condition?"

"Yes, your health."

"Well, see now, that's a relief, because I swear to god I thought you were trying to tell me I was pregnant, and I don't know how it works in Israel, but here in the good ol'—"

"Are you quite finished?" Ziva asked.

"Quite, especially the part about discussing the non-issue of my health. Not that I'm not thrilled with your concern, and if you'd like, later on I'll let you rub Vap-O-Rub into my chest," Tony said.

"There will be no rubbing."

"Slathering, then."

"Haiwan. Ghabi haiwan," Ziva muttered.

"So, no to the slathering?"

"Fine, we shall not talk about your health," Ziva said, cruising through traffic. "I give up."

"Thank God for small mitzvahs."

"What do you know of mitzvahs?"

"Oh, I know things."

"Yes, I'm sure you do," she said, eyeing him, suspicious yet intrigued, and humored, all courtesy of her partner. "Perhaps we could use this time to discuss our thoughts on the case."

Tony pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes, and said, "Sure. Why don't you start?"

"Very well," she said, straightening her neck. "Here are my initial thoughts: The dismembered hands and feet are a message, not just a way to conceal identity. I believe they were removed to say… to say… Well, I'm not sure what they say, but they were removed for a reason. Of this, I am certain. I say this because if one is trying to simply conceal identity, they would remove the fingertips, at the most the fingers. But to sever the hands through those tattoos suggests…" However, when she peeked at Tony and saw his jaw agape, his head rolled to one side, snoring, she ground her teeth together and choked the steering wheel.

*****

Ducky wove his fingers together, as much a gesture of homage to the deceased before him as a measure of more fully securing his gloves. Jimmy Palmer allowed his mentor the solemn moment, knowing it was part of Doctor Mallard's preparation before certain autopsies.

The young man bowed his head reverentially, he hoped, and offered, "Colleagues are the worst."

"I will take it from your malapropism that you are referring to the autopsy of a colleague," Ducky said, eyeing his young assistant, to which Jimmy grimaced, his head bobbing, a fumbled apology forming on his lips. "Shall we begin?"

"Certainly, Doctor." Grateful that the topic was over, Jimmy lowered his visor, and Ducky began the initial incisions.

"Ducky," Ziva said, exploding into the autopsy room, "there is something I must discuss with you."

Ducky stopped his work, raised his hand, the scalpel with it, and scowled. "Can't it wait, Officer David?"

"Did you tell Tony that he has been drinking too much caffeine, and that this is the cause for his strange symptoms?" she demanded, a stolid, implacable figure at the foot of the slab.

Ducky pressed the scalpel to the man's upper chest and proceeded as planned. "You may have noticed, Ziva, that I'm otherwise occupied just at the moment." Exert pressure, through the dermal layers, and continue…

Unfazed by neither the incision nor the rebuff, Ziva continued. "You are a talented man, and I am sure you can talk and…cut at the same time."

"Yes, I am," Ducky said, starting at the intersection of the cuts to begin the final slice. "Now, do remember, Mr. Palmer, when incising the thoracic cavity to take extra care of the internal organs."

"Yes, Doctor."

"You have not answered my question, Ducky," Ziva reminded the man.

"I realize I haven't, but I owe it to our Mr. Chen here to give him my undivided attention, seeing as how I am presently dividing him."

"Well said, Doctor," Jimmy interjected, smiling, cataloging yet another bon mot for his own personal use one day.

Ziva smirked. "I'm sure Chen wouldn't mind." She planted her hands on the corners of the metal table, locked out her elbows, and said, "Today, while in the car, Tony said his heart went…Well, Tony made some ridiculous noise, which I refuse to reproduce, but the fact is his heart was racing, and then it wasn't. He told me that you said it was caffeine." Ziva pressed up onto her tip-toes in order to get a better view of the newly exposed chest cavity, which made her wince and wish she hadn't been so curious. "I am here to tell you, Doctor, that Tony DiNozzo does not drink enough caffeine to…to make a hyrax hiftia'."

Jimmy's focus shifted from the bone saw to Ducky's face. Ducky, undeterred, continued his work severing ribs.

"A hyrax, Mr. Palmer, is a rodent indigenous to Israel, Saharan Africa, and the greater portion of the Middle East. Hiftia', one can only presume, is some form of Hebrew verb." Jimmy simply nodded and continued on.

"It is the verb for surprised, to be exact," Ziva said, and then her hand swept the diversion away with one quick pass before her face. "My point is that I believe there is something more going on with Tony, and I would like you to tell me what it is."

"No."

"No?"

"No," Ducky said, removing the frontal plate from Chen's chest. "Certainly, Ziva, you can imagine that any conversation I have had with Anthony concerning his health is strictly confidential."

"Yes, but—"

"However," he said, interjecting, "since I have had nothing other than a passing anecdotal exchange with Anthony about rather sketchy symptoms, there truly is nothing that I am holding back from you."

"So, you didn't tell him he shouldn't be worried about his strange heart rhythms?"

"Certainly not," Ducky said.

"It is cause for concern, though, right?"

"Any anomaly in the heart's rhythm is cause for concern," Ducky said, peering inside the man's chest. "Now, look here, Jimmy. See how the aorta is devoid of blood? What does that suggest to you?"

A smile spread across the young man's face. "Exsanguination!"

"Yes, well," Ducky said, uncomfortable with his assistant's outburst, "we mustn't be too excited. After all, our exploration of the man's aorta does come with it the fact of his rather gruesome death."

"You're right, Doctor Mallard."

Ducky, whose hands were busy palpating the still heart, looked up from his patient and down to the foot of the table, which he found to be uninhabited. "Mr. Palmer?"

"Yes?"

"When did Officer David leave?"

"Somewhere around when you lifted the aorta out of his chest."

"Oh, my," Ducky said, staring blindly toward the morgue door. But, as always, there was work to be done and a lifetime worth of stories to share. "Mr. Palmer, did I ever tell you about the autopsy I performed on a Benedictine monk who had spent his last eleven years in self-imposed silence? When I examined his vocal folds, I found a plethora of nodules."

"So, he was cheating all those years, wasn't he?" Jimmy asked, relishing the fact that he had figured out the mystery before being told the answer. However, when Ducky glanced at the young man over the rim of his glasses, Jimmy knew he had once again missed the point. "Of course, I mean, he may… may not have… um…"

Ducky decided to end the poor man's misery and simply continued on with his tale. "It seemed our monk had been aided in his silence by his previous life as a Wall Street trader. Poor chap had effectively muted himself after all those years in the pit. I suppose the serenity of life as a Benedictine monk was just the counterpoint he needed in his life."

"So how did he die?" Jimmy asked.

"Oh, right," Ducky said, making the final cut to remove the heart from the chest cavity. "He died of massive brain injuries."

"He was in an accident?"

"Of sorts," Ducky told him. "Apparently, he was vacuuming out the church organ when the choir master flipped the switch for the blowers. Being mute, the poor man couldn't make his presence known before the great instrument bludgeoned him to death."

"So, he was killed while blowing an organ? Really?" Jimmy asked, his voice pained by incredulity.

"Well," Ducky said, pausing to consider the premise, "when put that way, it does sound rather sordid, but I assure you, that's what happened."

Jimmy Palmer shook his head, lowered his eyes, and tried, really tried, not to laugh in the older man's face.

*****


	3. Chapter 3

Man, is it fun to be writing again! Hope you enjoy this chapter. I know these chapters aren't very long, but it's the best I can do with the time I have.

Thanks again to all the wonderful words of encouragement. Sometimes they make the difference between me wanting to take a nap and wanting to write. Sometimes they also work like the call of the Sirens, calling me to lose all hope of ever getting my half-marathon training in or any papers graded. Therein lies my epic flaw… Can you tell my students and I have just finished The Odyssey?

Happy Thanksgiving, by the way. We here in the Midwest couldn't have asked for a lovelier couple days. Here's to an ice-free winter!

*****

He bolted out of bed. Coughing, hacking, Tony stumbled around his bed, to his bathroom, threw on the tap, and lapped at the water. Coughed again. He gulped the air. The muscles in his legs were spongy, deprived off oxygen, and so he hunkered down, his hands clamped to the edge of the countertop. And coughed, a dry, wracking bark. The faux drawer front was cool against his forehead, and finally the frenetic pace of his circulatory system slowed. Even so, the insistent whomp of pulse filled his ears.

How many nights had this occurred, when he'd jump from bed, when he'd end up gasping for breath, running through his room without realizing he was even awake? How often had he stood in this darkened room aching, a bone-deep ache, each joint in his body filled with sand?

It was just a matter of time before the gut began to churn, before the bile began to lap at the back of his mouth. Before he'd reach for the Mylanta and swig it down like it was pint of milk. Before he'd run through the list of those things he'd eaten, trying to find a cause for his indigestion, and always finding he'd not eaten enough of anything to cause indigestion. Not lately.

And his chest—like shoes tied too tightly, Tony wished he could somehow loosen the cords that were a string of knots over his sternum.

Giving way to the exhaustion that coursed through his body, Tony collapsed his awkward crouch, plopped onto the cold, tile floor, and wedged himself into the intersection of the cabinet and wall. He reached up to the counter and let his fingers crawl blindly over the surface until they came into contact with the antacid. Dropping the anemic blue bottle into his lap, Tony waited until the pinpricks of fatigue that skittered through his arm flickered away. He squeezed his hand, hoping that would help, but his hand felt swollen. He pulled up the other hand, squinted to see them both in the diminished light, and found his hands to be puffy. He fisted them, the skin pulling against knuckles, not able to completely draw his fingers in.

"What the hell did I eat?" he wondered. It had to be something, otherwise his stomach wouldn't be a cauldron of acid, his head wouldn't be pounding, and his fingers wouldn't feel like sausages. Maybe it was food poisoning, and maybe it was just going to get worse.

What would happen, he speculated, if he passed out, right here, right in his bathroom, which, he realized, was in desperate need of a cleaning? How long would it be before Gibbs, or Ziva, or, God forbid, McGee came searching for him? Rather than coming up with an answer, albeit rhetorical, the cool night air seeped into his skin, and Tony began to tremble.

"Then, it's settled," he said, laboring to open the top of the Mylanta, his hands shaking, "I won't pass out. Nope, I'll just drink this…frothy mix, all by my lonesome, and then I'll go back to bed, also all by my lonesome." He tipped the bottle and poured the viscous, gritty fluid into his mouth. Screwing shut his eyes against the texture and taste, Tony swallowed, replaced the top on the bottle, and tossed it into the sink. "God, I hate that stuff," he told the darkness, making fists with his hands. Waiting for the medicine to coat the inside of his stomach, Tony breathed, simply breathed. And coughed. And rubbed the heel of his hand into his aching chest. "I wonder if I can mix Mylanta with NyQuil. Abby would know. I should call Abby. But, if I call Abby, she'll call Ducky, who'll call Gibbs, and if Gibbs knows, he'll call me, and then I'll be forced to shoot myself with my own gun, which will make a mess, and my house cleaning service will charge me double, so, no. No calling Abby." He jimmied his feet underneath him, reached above for the counter and the wall, and pressed himself up to his feet.

The room tilted, so too his stomach. Tony anchored his hands onto the ledge and coughed. And waited for the nausea to pass.

Something had to give.

*****

"Where are we, people?" Gibbs asked, cantering down the steps into the bullpen. Tony shook the muzzy, late-morning cobwebs from his head and replayed Gibbs' question. _What was it?_

Even though he fully expected Tony to jump in first, McGee pushed away from his computer and addressed his boss. "Well, Abby and I checked Justin Chen's computer, and so far, we haven't found anything outside the norm, but we're still digging."

Sensing Gibbs' displeasure, Ziva added, "Tony and I went to the victim's apartment."

"And?" Gibbs said.

"And," Tony said, taking over, "um, not much out of the ordinary, Boss—computers, family photos, that sort of thing."

"We also performed a luminal check," Ziva said, her eyes tracking between Tony and Gibbs. "We did not find evidence of blood or a struggle."

"So, nothing."

"Well, not nothing," Tony said, which brought Gibbs to face him. "Apparently, our victim has been busy, if the stains on his mattress are any—"

"We also found a rather curious thank you card," Ziva interjected, staring down Tony. "It was from his father, stating that he was sending 'the gift' back, that paying for a son's education is a father's responsibility."

"I'm just sayin' because the luminal also showed up on a few socks we found under Chen's—"

"Have you contacted the father yet?" Gibbs asked, ignoring his senior agent.

"I have left a message on his voice mail, but he has not returned my call," Ziva said.

"So…"

"So," Tony said, knowing he had to regain some respect in Gibbs' eyes, "we checked the records and found that he and his wife are members of Chinese Lutheran Church in Rolling Meadows, Illinois." The long string of words winded Tony. He looked to Ziva to finish the story, and prayed that she'd take it as sharing the credit, rather than spelling him.

Ziva scowled, but continued. "We called Pastor Janice Liu and told her that we need the Chens to return our call."

Gibbs rounded his desk and put down his coffee cup. "You may need to get on a plane."

"There's no need for that," Ducky said, entering the room. "Mr. and Mrs. Chen are on their way to Norfolk so they can be with their son."

Gibbs eyed each one of his agents, the unspoken message being that they had better pick up their pace. "Where are you on the autopsy, Duck?"

"Far enough to know the lanyard around his neck was placed there post mortem."

Somewhere in the dullness of his thoughts, Tony knew there surely was some pun he could be making, but it refused to surface.

"The poor man suffered a gruesome death," Ducky said, resting against the edge of Tim's desk and using the hem of his scrubs to clean his glasses. "His feet were severed while he was still alive." With one final examination through his lenses, Tony placed his glasses back on. "The pooling of the remaining blood and the contraction of the vasculature suggests that he was well on his way toward exsanguinations before his hands were removed."

"When will his parents be here?" Gibbs asked.

"Their plane lands at two this afternoon," Ducky told them. "Jethro, I would like to release the body as soon as possible. Mr. Palmer is finishing up the tissue and hair samples. I feel quite confident we'll be able to send the Chens home with their child in a day or two."

"Then let's find out what happened to their son ASAP, people," Gibbs said, taking a moment to check his email. "DiNozzo, talk to me about the security tapes from the Swamp."

"The…" Tony started, finding he had lost track of the conversation somewhere along the line.

"We have begun to look over the tapes," Ziva said, inserting herself into the conversation. "Nothing yet, Gibbs."

"Clock's ticking," Gibbs said, grabbing his coffee and striding through the room. He stopped short of leaving the bullpen, doubled back, and said, "DiNozzo, you okay?"

Even in his fatigue, the senior agent knew that tone in Gibbs' voice. It wasn't concern; it was an invitation to step into a trap. "Yeah, Boss. Up late last night going over tapes. The Swamp's a busy place."

"Uh-huh," Gibbs said, scrutinizing him, and Tony hoped the sweat he felt peppering his skin wasn't clearly evident to Gibbs. Ziva's focus was a laser beam on the exchange. So, too, was Ducky's. For his part, Tim held a passing interest. Gibbs went on, "Rule number 25."

"Don't mess with a Marine's coffee?" Tony said, pretty impressed that he was able to excavate the information from his exhausted mind.

"That's 23, DiNozzo," Tim said, smirking.

"Thank you, McSuck-up."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes, leaned over Tony's desk, and said. "Rule 25 is 'Get your sleep.'"

Tony blinked. "I…I thought that was 26."

Sliding his coffee in front of Tony, Gibbs said, "26 is 'You can sleep when you're dead.'" With that, Gibbs strode from the room and up toward the director's office, and Tony slunk down in his chair.

"Anthony," Ducky said, coming to stand next to Tony's desk, "do you have a moment?"

Rubbing his temples, Tony said, "Kinda busy, Duck."

"I promise I won't monopolize too much of your time," he said, a gentle, empathetic smile below sad eyes. "How have you been feeling?"

Tony's attention was piqued, and he glared at Ducky. And then at Ziva, who returned the expression. "Is there some sort of pool I should know about, Doctor?"

"A pool? Of what type?"

"The kind where everyone in the office places money on what might be wrong with me," Tony said, anger infusing his tone.

A slow chuckle left Ducky's lips, and he said, "If there is, give a lad a bit of inside information."

"God, I'm sick of answering that question," Tony said, dropping his aching head into his hands.

"Do humor me, my boy."

"Humor you, huh?" Tony said, suddenly on his feet, at great expense to his burning muscles. "Yeah, I'm not feeling my best. I seem to be catching everything out there except a break. God, it's…" Tony shook his head, infuriated as much by his own fragile, tenuous grasp on wellness as with those around him who would not give him the room he needed. "Okay, you know what? Three birds, one stone—Hey, McGee, David, Doctor Mallard, oh, and anyone else who may want a glimpse into my life, my PERSONAL life!" he growled, spinning so that the whole office could hear. "Not that it's any of your business, but I have a virus, the sniffles, possibly even the creeping crud, so wash your hands, try, TRY to not to stick your tongue up my nose, and we'll make it through this, all right?! I thought you should know so you can concentrate on the case instead of me."

"Good to know, Tony," McGee said, offering a thumbs up, yet never looking away from his computer screen. "Don't really care, but good to know."

"Even so," Ducky continued, "your irascibility would suggest that you have an elevated level of fatigue, indicative of—"

"Give it a rest, would ya, Duck?" Tony said, pushing past the man, forcing his gait to be more powerful than he felt. He punched the down button on the elevator panel, spun to pelt his counterparts with one last glare, and listened for the whoosh of elevator doors.

Once inside, once the quiet anonymity of the descending lift surrounded him, Tony smacked the emergency stop. The compartment jostled, and Tony turned and spread his hands against the brushed metal wall, his pounding head between his hands. Infuriated by Ducky's questions, certainly provoked by Ziva, Tony pounded a fist against the wall.

No, he didn't feel well. No, he wasn't sleeping. No, he couldn't breathe, not deeply, not nearly enough. But, if they kept pointing out what he already knew, Gibbs would start to lose confidence in his senior agent's abilities. He'd worked too hard, too damn long and hard to just let all that slip away.

A spasm overtook his lungs, and Tony coughed. His hand flew to his chest, tight and on fire. He panted for air, and coughed against a new spasm. He'd had pneumonia, and knew what it felt like, hell, what it tasted like to cough up phlegm, thick and putrid, but this wasn't pneumonia. That was drowning at the bottom of a murky sea. This was finding himself at 14,000 feet above sea level with no time to acclimate. There was never enough air for his burning chest, never enough light for his graying vision, never enough oxygen for his starving mind and body.

One way or another, though, he had to keep moving, or invite further questions. He steadied himself, raked a hand through his hair, and flipped the toggle. With a whir, the elevator continued on, and when the doors opened, Tony stepped out. A quick correction of balance required a hand against the wall, but it passed. Tony cleared his throat, sucked in a deep breath, and threw open the door to Abby's lab.

Spinning, her sleek, plated hair whipping through the air, Abby grinned at her visitor. "I'm so glad you're here. I'm always glad you're here, but right now, I'm ecstatic, which is cool since static electricity is key to my gladness. Is that even a word, gladness?"

"Abby?"

"If it's not, it should be," she said, marching to meet him at the door, and her ebullient smile eased him. Abby spread her stance wide, placed one hand ten inches above the other, and said, "So, I am totally on top of my game, like," she said, wriggling the bottom hand, "here's my game, and here," she added, wriggling the top, "is me. On top of my game."

"You usually are. Abby?" Tony said, not able to make his voice catch the usual timbre, which Abby picked up on. She lowered her hands and cocked her head to the side. "Abs, if I wanted you to not ask any questions and to pretend you didn't see me, would you do that?"

Abby grinned, her eyes mischievous slits. "NCIS hide-and-go-seek. I'm totally into it. How many elephants do I get?"

"About half an hour's worth," Tony told her.

Abby placed a hand on his shoulder, looked him deeply in his bloodshot eyes, and said, "I'll give you as long as you need. And, I'll make sure nobody else finds you."

Relieved, Tony kissed her on the cheek as he passed by, grabbed Burt from under the shelf, and retreated to the back of her private office. Once inside, he let the glass doors close in front of him, blew Abby a kiss, and hunkered down for a much-needed nap.

*****

Jimmy Palmer uncapped the permanent marker, wrote "Finger nail scrapings, right hand" on the outside of yet another evidence bag, and placed it in the box being readied for Abby's lab. Something troubled him, even beyond the mutilation of the corpse. He clapped the cap back on the pen, and stepped away from the patient. And thought.

"What is it, Mr. Palmer?" Ducky asked, applying a slice of lung tissue to a Petri dish.

"It's too clean," Jimmy said. He crouched down next to the table and peered directly into Justin Chen's open skull. "I keep thinking we'll find something, some dirt, some chemicals, some…something. But there's nothing."

"Yes, I was thinking the same thing," Ducky told him, stepping back. "In cases such as this, one usually finds defensive wounds, evidence of struggle."

The breathy negative pressure of the morgue doors being opened caught their attention, and both men looked up.

"So, what's he got to say?" Gibbs said, striding into the room.

"Well, therein lies the rub," Ducky said. "Mr. Palmer and I were a moment ago discussing that very subject. It seems our Mr. Chen is playing his cards rather close to the vest."

"Without the vest, of course," Jimmy said, impressed by his wit. Gibbs, on the other hand, was not as impressed. "I just meant because his chest plate is gone."

"Yeah, I got that, Palmer," Gibbs said, reducing Jimmy's confidence with a look.

"I…uh, didn't, um," the young man stammered, and Ducky decided to take the man out of his misery.

"I think we're finished here, Mr. Palmer. Why don't you take these specimens to Abigail's lab?"

Jimmy peeled off his gloves, and said, "Right away, Doctor." He gathered up the box and scuttled out of the room before the sweat seeped through his scrubs.

"How was your meeting with the director, Jethro?" Ducky asked.

"Three hours of read-ins. No worse than any slow death." Gibbs leaned against the edge of the unoccupied exam table, crossed his ankles and his arms, and said, "So, about Chen."

"As I was saying," Ducky continued, perching on his stool, "Chen's body shows no sign of abuse, other than, of course, the dismemberment. His nails are clean, there's not even significant levels of adrenalin in his system. It's as if he were in some catatonic state before he met his death."

"Maybe protecting someone," Gibbs said.

"Perhaps." Ducky slipped the sterile cap from his head and tossed it into the bin. "But, that's not why you're here."

"No, it's not," Gibbs said.

"You want to know if I think there's something wrong with Tony."

"Do you?"

"Enough that I confronted him about his health."

"What'd he have to say?"

"He was defensive, which didn't surprise me," Ducky said. "But," the doctor said, raising one, definitive finger, "that is not why I entered his personal space, as it were. I did so to look for signs of illness, aside from the fatigue, the lethargy, the weight loss that we've all seen. And signs, I found."

"Such as?"

"Puffy eyes."

"Yeah, so he's tired."

"Yes, but fatigue does not cause puffy hands."

"Puffy hands?"

"Anthony's fingers and wrists are swollen, which could be indicative of Aagenaes Syndrome, Glomerular Disease, a disease of the kidney, as well as any number of allergic reactions, auto-immune disorders, edema—"

"So we're not talking about the common cold here," Gibbs said.

"No, I don't believe so," Ducky said. He stood, stripped off his smock, tossed it into the bin, and went on. "You should also know that Ziva came to see me about this very subject. She reported that Tony has been experiencing irregular heart rhythms, and as you very well know, Jethro, with his unique medical history, Anthony cannot afford to simply turn a blind eye from such signs."

"Thanks, Duck," Gibbs said, striding from the room.

"Where are you going?"

"To bring sight to the blind."

*****

He woke up with a start and a cough. His hand clawed at his shirt to open the collar, which was already opened. He panted for air, and searched the room, disoriented and anxious.

"Tony?" came the soft voice and an even softer hand.

"Abby?" he gasped, which meant he was in Abby's lab. Which meant he had been sleeping. Okay, he remembered that part. "How long have I been asleep?"

"About 4500 elephants worth," Abby told him. "Were you having a nightmare?"

Tony rose, rubbed his sour stomach, and realized that Abby had asked him a question. "What? Oh, uh, no. Just…What time is it?"

"About 11:30," she told him. "Ziva was looking for you."

"Okay, thanks." Tony grabbed his suit coat from the back of the chair, and picked Burt off the floor. Listed a moment. Closed his eyes.

"Get up too fast?" Abby asked.

That excuse sounded as good as any. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I did. Thanks, Abs," he said handing over the stuffed animal. Once outside Abby's office, once beyond the doors to her lab, Tony waited for the elevator doors to open, which was good, because he needed the time to catch his breath. One hand on each side of the frame, Tony slung his head low and took one breath. Coughed. Felt his vision begin to gray. The doors whispered open, just in time for Tony to enter and hunker down. From his crouch, he hit the button for his floor, and hoped it would be an uninterrupted trip. Sometimes it helped to be low, to be crouched down. He didn't know why, but low to the ground and sucking his air through the filter of his teeth somehow made breathing easier.

Of course, having a strategy to breathe easier brought no amount of comfort to Tony. How much longer before he'd have to find something other than strategy?

Glancing toward the lighted panel, Tony began the arduous journey up from the floor to his feet. His heart pounded at the exertion, and Tony had no strategy other than to try to draw in air through rounded lips.

When the doors opened and he found Gibbs leaning against the edge of his desk waiting for his senior agent, Tony's heart began to race again.

Going for nonchalance with a touch of ignorance, Tony glided into the bullpen, past Gibbs, and on to his desk.

"You seem a little winded, DiNozzo," Gibbs said.

Tony stopped short of his desk, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and turned, smiling. "Just came up from the basement, Boss."

"You took the elevator."

"Yeah, but I ran the whole way."

Jethro Gibbs smiled, lowered his eyes, and stepped toward DiNozzo. "I'm thinkin' you and I need to talk."

"Sure, Boss," Tony said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I was just down in Abby's lab. We can talk about Chen's computer."

"Nope, not what I had in mind."

"Then I can give you a list of possible topics, unless you have one in mind."

"Oh, yeah. I do," Gibbs said, drilling Tony with dispassionate blue eyes. "When's the last time you were at your doctor's?"

Tony, never one to be cornered, not even by Gibbs, smiled broadly and falsely. "You know, it makes me feel all mmm, mmm, mmm good inside to know how much you care, Boss."

Gibbs laughed, giving sarcasm as well as he was taking it. "I do, DiNozzo. Oh, I do. Why don't you go ahead and answer the question?"

"The question?"

"About your doctor."

"I had my teeth cleaned three months ago."

Gibbs quirked a lopsided smile, not meant to instill comfort in the man. "Come on, Anthony…"

And for Tony, the gig was up. He couldn't hold off the truth anymore than he could keep standing here, all the while suppressing spasms in his lungs. "I was there a couple months ago, back when I had the flu."

"I think it's time you went back."

Tony balked at this suggestion, and began to turn away from the spot. "I really don't—"

"Let me be clear," Gibbs said, capturing Tony's elbow in one hand and his belted cell phone in the other. He held the phone up in front of Tony's face, and said, "Make the appointment."

Tony glanced at the phone, the fight still in him. "I'd have to check my calendar."

"Your calendar's clear."

And when he looked into Gibbs' eyes, when he saw the steel, the intractable, unmovable purpose in those eyes, Tony surrendered. He took the phone, and without another word scrolled through his phone book until he found his doctor's number. Once it was ringing, Gibbs leaned in and whispered, "Don't make me order you to put it on speaker phone." Tony leaned away to get a clearer view of his boss and thanked God he hadn't gone with his first reaction, which was to call his hairdresser.

"Yes, hi. This is Anthony DiNozzo. I need to make an appointment to see the doctor. The reason? I guess you could say I'm run down," Tony said.

Gibbs once again whispered instructions into his ear. "Shortness of breath. Swelling in the hands."

Tony closed his eyes, and repeated the symptom. "Shortness of breath. Swelling in the hands."

"Fatigue. Weight loss."

"Fatigue. Weight loss."

"Chills."

Tony turned to Gibbs, and said, "Yeah, but only when you're around, Boss." Gibbs glared at the man, who returned to his conversation with the receptionist. "Chills. Next Tuesday?"

"Not good enough."

"Actually," Tony said, bristling, "I'm going to need something sooner."

"Don't forget to mention the plague."

Tony let loose a wholly inappropriate chuckle, and said, "Oh, yeah, I should probably tell you that I had pneumonic plague a few years back. Friday?" Tony looked to Gibbs for his approval, which he received. "Yeah, Friday is good." Tony turned to his desk, wrote down the date, and nodded. "Two o'clock would be great. Yeah. Okay, thanks." He clicked shut his phone, scribbled down the last of the information, and turned to tell Gibbs the final word.

But, Gibbs had disappeared. Tony was left standing alone in the bullpen, relieved that he no longer had to pretend he felt like hell.

*****


	4. Chapter 4

Okay, here's a long one. Let it sustain you, because I have a busy couple weeks ahead of me.

As always, what fun it is to hear from you. I am always amazed how people glom on to certain stories. It humbles me and motivates me. Thank you for all the kind words. I hope this chapter is worth the wait.

*****

Ziva loved interrogating scums of the earth. It was her distinct pleasure to see them squirm, sweat and break under her scrutiny.

What she did not like, what she loathed was talking to innocent, grieving family members. Perhaps, she thought, it was because she had been one of those distraught victims of violence. She knew all too perfectly well how certain endless nights of the year emptied her, body and soul. How the sheltering darkness, which usually cloaked her with reassurance, suffocated her with loss and remembrance. It was because she held this intimate knowledge that made questioning them so difficult, and it was because she knew these crying, shaking, despairing people would also soon share in the cruel knowledge of the interminable, silent nights.

The Chens were already living through those nights. The light of day held no consolation either. Their lives had irrevocably changed in the last four days, and their bodies broadcast their sorrow and fatigue. Needing to fly into a city they had never been to in order to meet with a coroner they never thought they'd have to meet was hard. Losing a child, even a grown child, was a horror. Having to identify markings, in the most discreet, compassionate manner Ducky could possible contrive, was beyond terrifying. Ducky had had Jimmy Palmer personally drive them back to their hotel so they could rest. He knew the next day, the day they would meet with the NCIS agents, would be just as draining. And debilitating, if only for the truths they may be forced to face.

So when Mr. and Mrs. Chen shuffled into the agency the next morning, drawn and pale from their grief, Ziva bricked even higher that wall of emotional detachment. She escorted them to a room, careful not express more than the appropriate, professional amount of measured condolence, asked them the questions she needed answers to, and then escorted them to a waiting area, where Ducky would take over.

It always surprised Ziva how physically demanding emotional detachment was.

After ten minutes in the bathroom, washing her face with cool water, smoothing back her ebony hair, and repeating the words of Beruriah, Ziva was able to restore her unflappable confidence.

"Where are we on the parents?" Gibbs asked the minute she turned into the bullpen.

Ziva took her seat at her desk, brushed both hands against the side of her hair, and said, "I have just left them. They are unsure where their son was able to procure $15,000, but they had indeed been sent three certified checks for $5,000 each, exactly one month apart."

"We have two of those checks, Boss. The father mailed them back to Justin," McGee added, sending the image to the LCD screens. "You'll notice that both checks are drawn from different banks."

Ziva removed an evidence bag from her folder and walked it to Tim. "As is the third," she said, handing over the check she had procured from her conversation with the Chens.

Tim held up the check, nodded, and said, "Increments of $5,000 are smart. Anything more usually sets off red flags for the bank adjusters. Justin sure did want to keep whatever it was quiet."

Tony sat silently, a serious, focused expression on his face. Anyone looking at him would think he was concentrating on this new information. And he was concentrating, but it wasn't to connect the dots. It was to attempt to follow along. Something about their voices was muted and dull, and his mind simply wouldn't grasp the thread. It worried him, and a bundle of spiraling nerves contracted in his chest.

"Did Chen withdraw the money from his account?" Gibbs asked.

Tim clicked his remote, and an image of Justin's bank account popped up on the screen. "That's just it, Boss, he hasn't had more than $1200 in his account in the last year."

"In my country, interns are not paid. I'm assuming this is the case here, too."

"It is," McGee said.

"Then how did an unpaid intern—"

"Send home 15,000 large to mom and pops?" Tim added.

"Keep digging," Gibbs said, tossing his empty cup into the trash.

"Abby may have something," Tim said. He turned off the screen, and said, "Tony, you want to join me?"

Gibbs watched DiNozzo and his slow reaction. Did he look pale? "DiNozzo? You hear McGee?"

"What?"

"I said—"

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, sure," Tony said. He placed both hands on his desk, pushed up from his seat, and stepped around his desk.

A visceral thump, and Tony felt his chest torque. He stumbled. His pulse launched like a jet racing down the runway of an aircraft carrier. He reached for his desk. Hands and fingers skittered across the surface finding no purchase. Papers and pencils cascaded to the floor. His vision stopped down from gray to black, and his suddenly boneless legs gave way.

"Whoa," Gibbs said, darting towards DiNozzo, anchoring Tony's arm over his shoulder. Ziva also rushed to his side, but like Gibbs, found Tony to be a dead weight and going down. She intercepted his falling head, cradled it in her arms while Gibbs kept the rest of him from crashing to the floor.

The floor was rushing to meet him. Hands were on him, lowering him, and he let them. A sound, muted and full of distortion, hovered above him. Fingers palpated his neck, his wrist.

"Jesus," Tony mumbled, scraping his fingernails against the rough texture below him. He lifted his head off the floor the best he could, and looked down at his chest—was there a rope around his ribcage? Tony watched the opening of his shirt flutter at the speed of his heart, and thought that was kind of interesting, in a completely horrifying way.

"DiNozzo?" called out Gibbs, and Tony's head lolled back and forth. "Hey, DiNozzo," Gibbs said again, turning Tony's face toward him.

Tony tried to lick his lips, tried to focus. Was he hearing his name? "Jesus."

Gibbs felt for the pulse in Tony's carotid artery. It couldn't possibly be that fast. "Ziva, why don't you—"

"I'll call 911," Ziva said, ripping her cell from its case.

"911?" Tony tried saying, hoping he hadn't heard Ziva correctly. "Why are you calling 911?" But no one heard.

"Tim," Gibbs said, pressing two fingers to Tony's wrist pulse, "why don't you go ahead and get Ducky up here?" For Tony, it was the calm in Gibbs' voice that frightened him the most.

"Boss?" Tony said, grasping at the edge of Gibbs' jacket sleeve, forcing some strength into his voice. "What just happened?"

Gibbs smiled and pretended it was no big deal that his senior agent was sprawled out on the ground. He checked his watch, just about to reach the ten-second mark. When it did, when he had calculated Tony's heart rate, he plastered a carefully crafted smile on once again, and said, "Guess it was time for your nap."

"God, my heart won't…won't stop pounding."

"I noticed."

Tony looked up and saw McGee peering down at him, a worried scowl on his face. "Hey, Tim."

"Hey, Ton."

"I think…I think I kinda…blacked out there."

"DiNozzos don't faint."

"Yeah, I remember…hearing…that," Tony said, and he tried to smile, but there was a thickness, a pressure in his neck. He labored to shift, to find a more comfortable position. "I think my…accelerator cable… I think it's…"

Ziva whispered into Gibbs' ear, "They're on their way." Gibbs nodded, never taking his eyes off DiNozzo.

Tony tried to breathe deep, but the need to breathe quickly, not deeply, was overweening. And still his heart raced, an uncontrollable clip. "Hey, Boss?"

"Yeah, DiNozzo?"

Tony swallowed. "I think I…just need some…some WD 40." Gibbs chuckled, and Tony was further upset. "No. No. I mean it."

"I'll work on it," Gibbs said, checking his watch once again.

"What do we have here?" Ducky said, jogging into the room. He knelt next to Tony and scanned the younger man's eyes. Beneath his fingers, Tony's skin felt clammy.

"Got a pulse of about 195," Gibbs told him, keeping his tone controlled and quiet.

Ducky eyed Gibbs, an unspoken message that he was aghast, and continued his examination. "I can assume an ambulance has been called, yes?"

"Yes," Ziva said, rising. "I will meet them at the door and escort them in."

"Good idea," Gibbs told her.

A thrum of dread, of an unknown wickedness approaching, skittered through Tony. There were bees in his chest, ready to burst out, buzzing and multiplying. "Something's wrong."

"What did you say, DiNozzo?"

He tried to escape, to get away. Tony dug his elbows into the ground, pushing himself up. "Something's not right." Gibbs placed a hand on his shoulder to quiet him. And suddenly, the fight was gone. Tony's eyes rolled back, his arms went limp. Gibbs called out the man's name.

Ducky's fingers shot to Tony's neck, in that hollow where life should be found. He leaned forward, his ear to Tony's mouth. "He's stopped breathing, and gone into fibrillation," Ducky said, yanking Tony's shirt from his waistband. "Someone fetch the AED, now!" An agent closest to the bracketed equipment raced from the room. Gibbs made short work of the placard of buttons on Tony's shirt. "Jethro, start compressions." Gibbs arms were steel rods, one solid piston over Tony's chest, marking out a precise rhythm—one and two and three and four and…

"Anthony," Ducky boomed, close to Tony's ear, "you must hold on. Do you hear me? Hold on, dear boy!" He searched again for a pulse, any sign that Tony was responding to the compressions. Nothing. "Breeeeeaaaathe, Anthony!"

In his years at NCIS, Tim McGee had seen almost countless deaths; he had examined and investigated innumerable levels of suffering. He had not, however, witnessed dying such as this—quiet, clean, passive. Tim moved away, and could not peel his eyes from the sight. The unnatural blue in Tony's lips. Gray skin. The way Tony's head rocked with the precise cadence of the compressions. There was no panic in the work conducted by Gibbs and Ducky. No one was yelling orders, and no one crying, and no one said a word to each other. It was controlled; it was orderly; it was horrific. His friend, a man he had known for years, was simply slipping away. Tim could hardly breathe.

…Twenty-eight and twenty-nine and thirty. Gibbs hunched over Tony's face, lifted his neck, levered back his forehead. He took in a deep breath, and pushed down Tony's chin. One, two breaths were blown into his mouth, and Tony's cheeks puffed out. Gibbs moved back to begin compressions again.

The agent who had raced to retrieve the AED had the bright blue and yellow box down, opened and activated faster than either of the senior men could have imagined.

Nimble fingers and confident hands placed the large, white pads on Tony's exposed chest. Gibbs continued downward strokes in the center of the young man's chest. The digital readout blinked, and then said, "Do not touch the victim. Analyzing heart rhythm." Gibbs hands flew from Tony's chest.

Again, the AED's prerecorded voice sounded, and Ducky was already in position, his finger on the toggle. "Shock advised. Charging. Remove hands from victim, and press yellow button to administer shock," the AED commanded. Gibbs waited, his own air coming quickly, hands at the ready. He made a quick check to be sure he was not making contact with Tony. Ducky pressed the button, and Tony's chest buckled. Then he was still again, and all held their breath. A brief moment of anticipation before the next command came. "Continue compressions." Gibbs began again, a sheen of sweat glazed his neck and forehead—one and two and three and four and…

Other NCIS workers were gathered around the periphery, peeking over cubicle walls, fingertips pressed to half-opened mouths, hands twined together, silent and worried. Ducky checked his watch. A good three minutes had passed since he had received Tim's call, and perhaps one-and-a-half, two desperate, critical minutes since Tony crashed.

"Shock advised. Charging. Remove hands from victim, and press yellow button to administer shock," came the low, prerecorded voice once again. Gibbs moved back, breathing heavily; Ducky depressed the toggle. Again DiNozzo's torso lurched, seized.

And suddenly, Tony opened his eyes. He drew in short, syncopated puffs of air over slack lips.

Gibbs sat back on his haunches, inhaled sharply and nodded. "Way to go, DiNozzo," he said, relieved. He patted Tony's cheek, and nodded again.

The AED continued registering the man's vitals, and Ducky took his own readings—pulse, skin, the colors of fingernails, and evidence of edema. He wriggled two fingers into Tony's fist, and said, "Anthony, can you squeeze my hand?" A tenuous though appreciable grasp came back, and Ducky said, "Good lad."

"Gibbs," called out Ziva, an ambulance crew in her wake. They set up next to Tony, and Ducky brought them up to speed—the man's name, age, previous medical history, summary of the cardiac event. One paramedic started an IV line in Tony's arm; the other placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Tony was lifted onto a gurney, he was strapped down, and they were off.

"I'm going with them," Ducky called, following in their tow.

Gibbs anchored his hands to his knees, hunched forward, and let his head hang. Adrenaline surged through his veins, and he shook.

Tim couldn't speak. He couldn't process what had just happened. What _**had**_ just happened? He caught the last glimpse of Ducky sailing through the door, of Gibbs raking a hand through his hair, and of Ziva standing defiant against an uncontrollable, absent enemy. What had he done to save Tony? Ziva had called and escorted in the paramedics. Gibbs and Ducky had saved the man's life. It seemed everyone on the team had contributed to the—

Without notice, Tim pivoted on his heels. He sprinted down the hall, ripped open the stairway door, and took the steps three at a time, sometimes four. His suit coat billowed behind him, and when he reached the lab entrance, he stumbled inside.

"Timmy," Abby said, spinning to face McGee. "Okay, it's not much, but I think I might have—"

"Abby."

"—found a smurf attack buried deep in the encryption. We're talking the Earth's mantle-deep. But—"

"Abs."

"—give me a fresh Caf-Pow, and I should be able to—"

Tim lunged for her, took her by the arms, and cried, "Stop it, Abs. Just stop." Abby stood shaken, stunned. How could he tell her? How could he tell her what he had just seen, when it was incomprehensible even to him? "Abby…"

Her eyes searched his. "What?"

"Something happened."

"What happened? You're scaring me."

"Something…happened to…" Tim raked his hand through his hair, his skin barely registering the sensation of touch. "God, Abby…"

"Is it Gibbs?"

"It's…it's Tony," he said, pacing. Pacing. Abby, whose sleeves were bunched into her fists, fists pressed to her mouth, stared at Tim, eyes suddenly brimming with tears. "He had a…a… I don't know, Abs, I don't know what happened, but he stopped breathing, and…and Gibbs…"

Abby's hand jutted out toward him and snagged his lapel. "Oh, my God, Tim, is Tony—"

Tim stared at his suit scrunched in her fist, and then understood Abby's concern. "No. Oh, no, Abs. Tony's still alive," he said, regretting that he had even allowed the thought to enter her mind. "No, Abs, he's… They took him to the hospital. They…"

"Who do you mean 'they'?"

"Ducky. And, um, the paramedics."

"Was he conscious?"

"Yeah, I guess, but…"

"Okay, so, exactly what do you mean he stopped breathing? Like, he was choking?"

"Yes. No. He collapsed, and then he…stopped. He just…stopped."

"You have to be clear! Did he pass out?"

"Yeah, I guess. I don't know. Gibbs started doing CPR—"

"CPR? God, Tim, Tony's heart stopped!"

"I know, Abs, that's what I'm saying."

"But, that's NOT what you said, Tim!"

The ferocity and speed of her questions added to his dizziness. He didn't need this, not from her. He needed her to help him. Help him get a grip on things, dammit. This isn't the way things happened. "Things just don't happen like this, Abby! One minute he was standing there, and the next he was on the floor, and…and I couldn't do anything, Abs! I watched him go down. I watched Ziva and Gibbs catch him before he fell. And…and I just stood there."

And then it was Abby's turn to comfort Tim. She girdled him with her arms, standing on tiptoe to hook her chin over his shoulder. He buried his face into the warmth of her neck and held her. Let her hold him. Abby rubbed slow circles on his back, and felt him begin to calm. When his pulse lowered, when she could feel the trembling lessen, Abby released her friend. She stepped back, gazed into his eyes, and screwed up her lips. "That had to be horrible, Timmy." Tim nodded, and Abby cupped his cheek with the warmth of her palm.

"Ducky went in the ambulance with Tony. Gibbs and Ziva are probably waiting for me. For us," Tim whispered, not quite trusting his voice.

"He's gonna be fine, McGee."

"Okay."

"You have to believe he'll be okay, Tim," she ordered.

He didn't want to deflate her hope, but she hadn't witnessed what he had. "It's not that easy, Abs."

"Dammit, McGee! This is Tony we're talking about! It IS that easy!" she told him, grabbing him by the hand. "Now, let's go!"

Tim hardly had time to right himself before the forward momentum propelled him toward the door.

By the time they reached the bullpen, Ziva and Gibbs were gone.

*****

"Gibbs!" Abby called out across the dimly lit family waiting area, bounding over to where he and Ziva were sitting, both huddled over coffee cups. Gibbs stood and barely had time to secure his coffee before Abby crushed him in an embrace. Tim closed the distance and sidled up next to her. "Gibbs! McGee told me what happened!" Jethro handed his cup to McGee and hugged her back. "And I want you to know," she said, uncoiling her arms and leveling him with her most earnest expression, "that what you did was a good thing. A very good thing. Like, the best thing I can even think of, so when Tony is healthy again, I've decided he and I are gonna make you cookies. Chocolate chip cookies. With walnuts. Unless you don't like walnuts. How about raisins? Do you like raisins, Gibbs, 'cause I can make—Oh, oatmeal! We'll make oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. With raisins! And oatmeal is good for you, Gibbs!"

"Abby…"

"Oatmeal is heart-healthy," she said, pacing between the cloister of chairs, tapping her fingertips, readying her explanation," and that would probably be something we should consider, especially since Tony has to be…Yes, definitely oatmeal, and—"

"Abs?"

"—dark chocolate. Very good for the heart. Full of antioxidants. Tony would like that. Yeah, Tony would like that. He'd eat them 'cause they taste good, but we'd know they're good for him. And that's the thing about Tony, he—"

Gibbs took her face in his hands and looked her straight in the eye. "Abby." She drew in a deep breath, preparing to launch again, but he shook his head. "Shhhhh…"

And then her expression slid away, and the tears came. "I don't understand any of this, Gibbs. How did this happen?"

"I don't know, Abs," he said, guiding her to a seat. Gibbs sat next to her, Abby's hand encased in his.

"He has not been well."

All three turned silently to Ziva, who stood apart from them, her eyes glued to the doors of the emergency room. When the silence permeated the space, she wheeled around, her countenance and voice stony. "I knew he was sick. I had discussed his health with him. I should have been more insistent. If I had, this would never have happened."

Gibbs eyed her, incredulous, and said, "You knew he was going to go into cardiac arrest?"

"Well, no," she said, "but I was aware he was not in perfect health."

"So was I," Gibbs told her, rising from his chair. "You telling me I'm also to blame?"

"This is not what I said."

Stepping directly in front of her, his blue eyes searing into her dark, stormy eyes, Gibbs went on. "Then are you withholding other information about DiNozzo's health I should know about?"

"No."

"Then cut it out!" he ordered, and Ziva flinched. "None of us knew how sick he was. And frankly, Officer David, to suggest otherwise is arrogant."

Ziva's lips formed words, yet no sound came. Her mind swirled with all that had transpired in these last few hours, and now to have Gibbs bring her up short—Ziva felt shell-shocked, a very uncomfortable and disconcerting realm of awareness for a Mossad operative. "I did not mean—"

"I know you didn't." He placed a hand on her back and ushered her over to the chairs where the others were transfixed by the interchange. "Let's all just calm down. Until we hear from Ducky, there's not much we can do."

And so they sat, at first in abject silence, and then in hollow, airless words. They fumbled on through the wait, questions pressed close to their lips, the answers to which they knew might be terrifying. They were thumbing through well-worn and smudged magazines when Gibbs offered to buy coffee for the group.

"I believe I'll put in my order, as well. A cup of Earl Grey would be lovely," said Ducky, rounding into the room. Like refugees running to a scrap of bread, they rushed him. Ducky held up his hands, motioned that they should all sit down with him. In their eyes, he knew what they immediately needed to know. "Anthony is alive. In a few hours, once he's stabilized, he'll be transferred to the cardiac intensive care unit."

"The cardiac intensive care unit?" McGee said. "It's that bad?"

"I'm afraid that it is." McGee wrapped an arm around Abby's shoulders, and Ziva pressed her fingertips to her lips.

"But, he'll be all right, right?" asked Abby.

"That is always the hope, Abigail."

"The hope?"

"But he was awake, alert when you left the agency," Tim said.

"I know, Timothy, but—"

"But, what, Ducky?" Abby said. "You were with him!"

"Abigail, you must—"

"Didn't the paramedics have the proper training?"

"The paramedics were very well trained. It wasn't—"

"Then what, Ducky? Tony was stable when he left."

"Yes, but—"

"He was—"

"Abs," Gibbs quietly interjected, "let the man talk." Abby clamped shut her mouth, embarrassed that her careening thoughts had gotten the best of her.

Ducky pressed his lips together, scowled and shook his head. He thought he had prepared what he would tell them, and he thought he'd know exactly how to answer their questions. He supposed this is why he went into pathology, not emergency medicine. "I do wish I could somehow sugar-coat the message for you, but there simply is no way to do that. Yes, he was alert when he left the office, but he did not remain so, which is common in cases of cardiac instability. There was no way of knowing the degree of his illness until he was here." Ducky stopped, took a breath, and gave them a chance to prepare themselves for the rest of the story. "Once inside the ambulance, on the way to the hospital, Tony coded again. The paramedics were able to resuscitate him, but only moments after he was in the emergency room…" Ducky said, and paused. He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, all the while hoping no one could see his hands tremble so.

Gibbs leaned forward, and whispered, "Duck?"

Doctor Mallard slid his glasses back on, breathed deep, and continued. This would be difficult. "Tony suffered a myocardial infarction."

"A heart attack?" Gibbs said, his eyes pinched in disbelief.

"The doctors were able to reduce what would have been the greater portion of damage through their quick actions, but his heart, Jethro… Anthony's heart…"

When Ducky did not persist, Gibbs pressed forward. "What about it?"

Ducky looked over the group and felt the tension, the palpable sorrow. "Our Anthony has been ill for quite a long time. I very much doubt that even he knew how sick he was." Ducky shifted in his seat, sorting through what he knew, what they needed to know. "We won't fully understand until he is stabilized and is able to undergo further testing, but the initial indications point to dilated cardiomyopathy." Each of the team members scanned the others' eyes, searching to find if any of them knew what Ducky was saying. Ducky picked up on their confusion and backed up. "His heart is greatly enlarged. When the infarction occurred, it didn't take long before the dilated ventricles, already ideopathically damaged, began the process of restructuring, thereby causing—"

"Make it simple, Duck," Jethro said.

"Meaning, Anthony has been in acute cardiac distress for weeks, and this event was simply the culmination of a long, drawn out illness. He is, I'm sorry to say, in chronic heart failure."

Heart failure. The words hurt, a hard, heavy pain. How could their friend, a man of brash invincibility, be brought down by heart failure? It was incongruous, crushing.

"How did Tony **not** know he was that sick?" Abby asked.

"He knew he was ill. He just didn't know how ill," Ducky told her. "If I were to venture a guess, I'd say he's been suffering from DCM, or an enlarged heart, for months. It does make sense when I recount Tony's symptoms of late—fatigue, nausea, shortness of breath."

"That speeded-up…heart thing," Ziva added.

"Right. Yes, tachycardia. But, unless Anthony had undergone specific cardiac examinations—an ECG, a cardiac stress test—the urgent-care clinicians would have assumed, as we did, that he was simply run down, a by-product of the flu he suffered from months earlier."

Gibbs squeezed the tight cords at the back of his neck. "He made an appointment with his doctor for this Friday," he said, not enjoying the irony in the least.

"There's no comfort in it, I'm sure, but his pulmonary physician would have taken the time to order up all those tests, given Tony's past."

"I don't get it," McGee said, shaking his head. "Tony's too young to have a heart attack. Isn't he?"

"You must make a distinction between what one usually associates with heart attack—heart disease, which affects not only the muscle of the heart, but the arteries as well—and cardiomyopathy. Anthony's arterial system is healthy, and that alone is his saving grace. No, in Tony's case, I believe we will find that his heart was attacked by a virus, a rather nasty one at that, which silently, perniciously went about destroying the muscle."

"So, once you treat the virus, he'll get better, right?" Abby asked, tears pooling in her eyes.

Ducky reached out for Abby's hand. He knew the human heart better than most of the population, and so he was intimately aware of the limitations, of the probable outcomes once necrosis became part of the equation. How many diseased hearts had he pulled from chests, weighed, measured the circumferences, and then commiserated with the owners? Yet, here he had been asked a simple question, a question about prognosis that he, of all people, could provide a qualified and quantified answer, and for the life of him, he didn't know what to say. "I wish it were that easy, Abigail."

He'd hit his limit, and Gibbs rose to his full height. He needed to put some space between himself and the others. They shouldn't have to be witness to his own distress.

"I am sorry to have to bring you this news," Ducky told them.

"'T's okay, Duck," Gibbs said. He patted the pathologist on the shoulder, his way of thanking Ducky. "How is he now?"

"He's been sedated and placed on a ventilator." And when those words reached Abby's ears, she yelped. Tim pulled her into him. "Oh, my dear, it's not because he can't breathe on his own. It's simply to assist him, to allow his heart to heal. His system has been through an enormous ordeal."

"When can we see him?" Ziva asked.

"Likely not until tomorrow," he told them. "The next twenty-four hours are critical, and Anthony will be monitored quite closely." He pressed himself up and out of the chair, straightened his back, and said, "My advice to you all is to go home and get your rest. I'll keep Jethro informed should there be any change. So, unless you have any further questions, I'll return to the ER." They remained silent, stunned, and Ducky couldn't help but feel their pain. He accepted a quick hug from Abby, shook both Ziva and Tim's hands, and let Jethro escort him out of the room.

Were there too many questions to ask, or too much to consider to even know what to ask? A cavernous silence fell upon them, the air thick with concern. Tim clung to Abby's hand; Abby crushed a Kleenex in her palm; Ziva stared blindly out the waiting room window and into the Norfolk night. And Gibbs, who straddled that tenuous place between worried friend and protective boss, stood with his shoulder pressed into the wall, his arms wound like coiled steel across his chest.

Two hours later, when Ducky came to report that Tony had been transferred to the CICU, McGee excused himself for the night. Ducky said he'd be taking a shower and bed inside the doctors' quarters. Gibbs asked Ziva if she wouldn't mind returning to the office to make the pertinent calls, report to the right people. Which left Gibbs and Abby to sit vigil in the quiet, demure room. Gibbs was pretty sure Abby needed a caffeine fix as badly as he did, so he kissed her forehead and said he'd be back in a while.

Caffeine, however, would wait. One stop to be made first.

Jethro made his way to the first floor, traveled through to the adjacent wing, and found himself in front of a familiar door. Whenever he was forced to spend time inside this hospital waiting for news on a coworker, a friend, he'd stop in.

It was what was inside the room that Gibbs found surprising.

He padded in, not wanting to disturb the man sitting in the second row of the dimly lit room. There, hunched forward, his hands cantilevered over the back of the seat, sat Tim McGee. Clasped between his hands was a long string of beads, a crucifix hanging at the bottom. Gibbs took a discrete seat behind him, folded his hands, and let the silence surround them both. Even so, McGee sensed another's presence and glanced over his shoulder.

"Hey, Boss," he said.

"McGee."

"I bet you're wondering why I'm here."

"Nope."

With a sigh, Tim sat back in his chair, his shoulders weighed down by the burden of his concern. "Okay, then I suppose _I'm_ wondering why I'm here." Gibbs rested his forearms over the seats in front of him and prepared to listen. Tim reeled in the length of the rosary into the palm of his hand. "My parents gave me this for my confirmation. They told me to carry it with me at all times. When I started work at NCIS, I threw it in my desk drawer. Almost forgot it was there. Until today." He closed his hand around the rosewood beads and silver chain, and buried the rosary deep in his suit pocket. "Come to find out, I can't remember how to say a rosary."

"Lots of 'Hail Marys,' a couple 'Our Fathers.' 'Glory Be'," Gibbs told him, which earned him a wide-eyed stare from Tim. Gibbs shrugged his shoulders.

"Huh. Who knew?" Tim said, turning to face the front of the chapel once again. He rubbed a hand across his tired face, the strain of the day beginning to be felt. "I was an altar boy, if you can believe that."

"Yup."

Tim threw Gibbs a quick look and a soft guffaw. He let his focus drift back down to his hands, and picked nervously at a callous on his thumb. "I was sitting in the waiting room, not knowing what to do, and all of a sudden my mom's voice was in my ear—'Offer it up.' Offer it up." He looked up and found the solemn cross hanging in the front of the chapel. "The only problem is, I don't know how. All those years of Catholic school, all those weekends when I'd button up that…uncomfortable, black vestment—lots of buttons, by the way," he said, an insincere smile creeping across his lips. Gibbs simply remained silent. "Tony's Catholic, so I thought… I thought I'd come here and say some… well, something on his behalf, but that's just it. I don't have the first clue what to say. So I pulled out my rosary, and I already told you how that went. Then, I thought I'd just say a prayer. I tried to remember some of the prayers I knew—the Gloria, the Apostle's Creed—and I couldn't get through any of them. Kind of one of those 'you need the rest of the congregation to remember the words' sort of things." Gibbs nodded, wove his arms together over the chair back, and rested his chin on top. "So, I'm here for Tony, and once again, I feel like I'm letting him down." That admission, that raw, painful statement brought visceral pain to McGee, and he couldn't bear looking anywhere but down at his hands.

Gibbs understood the guilt, although he didn't believe McGee deserved to lay it upon himself. He looked around the small room, which thankfully lacked a TV, a phone, piped in music, and he decided he'd crack open the private chambers of his own soul, just a bit, for Tim. "You know why I spend so much time in my basement, McGee?" Tim stole a quick peek at Gibbs, showing his boss he was listening. "I don't have to be in charge of anything other than my sanding block. I don't have to have any answers. Let somebody else mind the store. So, I come here. It's quiet; it's dark."

"A little dusty," Tim said.

"Yeah, it is that," Gibbs said, and smiled, which faded quickly. He glanced around the room, at the soft backlit stained-glass window, at the modest oak cross, and at the brass Star of David. He noticed the film of dust on the fake potted plants, and smiled. "I don't know what will happen with Tony, but I know sitting around, going through the same 'what ifs' won't help. So, I'm here, for the same reason you are."

"Which is what?"

"Because it's not my turn to mind the store."

Tim crossed his arms across his chest, took a deep breath, and nodded. "Yeah, you're probably right." He cupped his chin in his palm, and considered Gibbs words. But the sight of Tony's lifeless body wafted, unbidden, through Tim's mind, and he found it difficult to find solace in the silence.

"You'll get there, Tim," Gibbs said, patting him on the shoulder, and Tim gawked at his boss and his uncanny ability to read minds.


	5. Chapter 5

The good news—one massive set of essays is finished. The other (fingers crossed) good news—we may have a snow day tomorrow. The bad news—I have a new batch of essays to grade in my bag… That being said, I thought I'd offer up a few pages.

Very appreciative of all the kind words. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.

*****

Jethro Gibbs didn't know which was worse—the discomfort of sitting for hours in the waiting area's chairs, or standing for hours in the waiting area, wondering where on the spectrum of life and death DiNozzo lay.

Don't borrow trouble—one of the first rules Shannon taught him. Easier to take care of the business, or the needs of others, in his own cantankerous, obstreperous way. But, the others were gone, which left Jethro to recount the day.

What a day. It made his head hurt, so he rubbed the tight lines of his brow and paced.

"Jethro."

Gibbs spun around to find his friend of many years, looking haggard and old, standing in the doorway. "How is he, Duck?"

Ducky motioned for Jethro to follow him. "Knowing you as I do, you will not rest tonight until can you see for yourself."

Gibbs smirked and patted Ducky on the shoulder. "Yeah, you might know me too well."

Before entering the closed, restricted CICU, Ducky and Gibbs rubbed their hands with antibacterial foam. Ducky smacked the automatic door panel with his hip, and he and Gibbs entered the quiet of the ward.

"Hey, Duck?" Gibbs said. "Aren't visiting hours over?"

"Tony's nurse is smitten with my accent," Ducky told him, a lopsided, playful smile skipping across his mouth.

"Lay it on thick, did ya?"

"I actually went so far as to offer the woman my family's haggis recipe," Ducky said, chuckling. "Smart lass, she declined my offer."

Gibbs followed his friend into the large, open room. In the center, nurses and doctors sat inside one long island of computers and charts. Ducky waved to one of the nurses, who waved back with a smile. Bays lined the walls, small enclosures filled with equipment and silent patients. A case of blue-lit boxes, monitors, Gibbs thought, filled the expanse between two bays, and at the end, Ducky stopped.

"We can only stay a minute or so," Ducky told him. "He's still sedated, Jethro. Oh, and he's being assisted by an external defibrillator, so don't let that startle you." He paused, looked over his friend, and knew that the night would be long for Gibbs, for all of them, as would the next days and weeks. "I thought it important for you to see him."

Gibbs placed a hand on Ducky's shoulder and nodded. He then stepped lightly into the room.

No bigger than twelve-by-twelve, the bay felt more like a storage closet than a room. Just enough space for the nurse or doctor to step next to the off-centered bed. It was disorganized, chaotic and crowded, full of machines and tubes and monitors that beeped and whirred and chuffed and shone, and all of them were connected to Anthony DiNozzo.

There he was, centered quietly in the bed, lost in the white bedding. IV's taped in both arms, a blood pressure cuff circled his bicep, a rush of leads sprouted from beneath his light blue gown. The flimsy material over his chest popped up and down, unnatural and disconcerting, mechanized, an awkward approximation of a heart beat. Covering his mouth, taped to both cheeks, was a plastic guard, a long, clear tube pouring out. But, none of it bothered Jethro as much as Tony's still, neatly placed hands. It was obvious that one of the nurses had laid out his hands next to his sedated body. This was not DiNozzo. DiNozzo was noisy, frenetic, even in rest. Seeing Tony's hands spread out against the bleached sheets, unmoving, orderly, sliced into Gibbs' stoicism.

"Jethro," Ducky voiced, and Gibbs glanced back, acknowledging he understood time was limited. Jethro inched closer to Tony, slid his fingers under his friend's quiet, cool hand, and leaned down close. Nothing about Tony was familiar. His hair was unkempt, slicked down, his face was unshaven, his skin was pale. All of it was unacceptable.

Gibbs knew what he should do—give DiNozzo the order to fight, and fight hard. And so, he made a stiff paddle of his hand, placed it over Tony's head, and stopped. Looking down the length of his friend's covered, diminished body, Jethro anguished over all those mechanical measures that were helping the man fight. Instead, he gently laid his hand on Tony's hair, stroked the younger man's brow with his thumb, and whispered, "This is not the end of you, DiNozzo. Count on it."

One more look to find something familiar, some ounce of normalcy. There was none to be found. Ducky had warned him to not be startled. He wished he had heeded that warning.

"Jethro, it's time."

Gibbs gripped Tony's hand one more time, swallowed against the unwanted constriction in his throat, and said, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Without another word, without another glance around the ward, Jethro and Ducky lumbered into the night beyond the hospital.

*****

None of them had slept well. So it wasn't a surprise when they all showed up hours before they usually clocked in. A quick assessment of any new information, which they found was none, and they took up their work. For the first hour they focused on the case—Tim and Abby, who refused to be relegated to her lab, hunted through the Justin's hard drive, and Ziva sifted through his cell phone numbers. The second hour disintegrated—Tim sat behind his desk and skimmed emails; Ziva sat behind her desk and skimmed her notes; and Abby sat on Tony's desk and skimmed the pictures on her camera.

She needed to see him. She needed to see him in all his hyper, hilarious self. Cycling through her pictures was like going back in time, from the weakened, fading Tony, to the robust, animated Tony. Here was a picture of his crazy eyes, and she chuckled. Here, a picture of him leaning back in his chair, lowering a jelly donut into his mouth. The next, a tight shot of chewed up jelly donut in his mouth. That one made her laugh out loud. Next, a shot of Tony wiping donut off his pristine, white shirt. Abby jumped off the desk and padded over to Ziva's desk, where she tilted, and held the camera out for Ziva to take a look.

Ziva looked at the photo and smiled, obligatory and fleeting. Then she went back to work, and Abby went back to Tony's desk. She knew what Abby wanted her to see, but what Ziva saw wasn't goofy Tony, caught in one of his screwball-comedy antics. What she saw was a fit, at ease, healthy man. The juxtaposition of that picture, taken months earlier, and the image she held in her mind from the day before was startling. So she refused it.

"Gibbs!" Abby said, bounding from Tony's desktop. "You're here."

Their boss loped into the office, making a beeline for his desk. "Where else would I be, Abs?"

Tim stood up, smoothed down his tie, and said, "Morning, Boss."

Gibbs nodded his salutation. "What do we got?"

Tim looked to Abby; Abby looked to Ziva; Ziva looked back to Tim, who said, "Actually, Boss, we were wondering what you have."

Gibbs looked down at the cup in his hand, and said, "Coffee."

Once again, the triangle of silent communication went on, and once again, it was McGee who said, "No, we mean about Tony."

"I know what you mean," Gibbs quietly said, pulling his desk chair under him. He turned on his computer, sipped his coffee.

"Gibbs!" Abby cried. "This is so not cool."

Gibbs scowled. He didn't want to have this conversation, not after leaving his senior agent, unconscious, unrecognizable, in the CICU just hours before. But, these were more than agents. These were Tony's friends. He owed it to them to offer what he knew. Gibbs pursed his lips, considering his words. "Tony's…about the same as last night."

"When will we be able to see him?" Ziva asked, maintaining her control.

"Hard to say," Gibbs told them. "When I saw him last night—"

"You did?"

"When?"

"How'd he look?"

"He looked," Gibbs said, glaring at Tim, "like he's had a heart attack." Even to Gibbs, the remarks felt brusque, sand paper against chapped knuckles. He was the team leader, and he could tell his team needed encouragement, even if he didn't necessarily have it in him. "Look, Ducky will call. You know everything I know. Now, we have work to do."

They knew he was right. They knew there was nothing they could do to change fate, his health, his destiny, whatever. As much as they wanted to indulge in the fantasy that if they could just stay still, Tony would be fine—at least not get any worse—they all knew it was just an indulgence.

An obligation was finding Justin Chen's killer.

"Okay, well," McGee said, stepping over to join Abby, "Abby found something that might be of interest."

"Which is?" Gibbs asked.

"So, yesterday before…you know…I found some encrypted code on his hard drive," Abby said. "I mean, I wasn't, like, totally sure what it was, but I was pretty sure it was blue and lived in the forest."

Gibbs frowned and stared at his forensics expert.

"Um, what Abby is saying," Tim said, turning to Abby for permission to explain, which he received, "is there was coding that might suggest Chen's computer was set up for a Smurf Attack."

"How does that help me?" Gibbs complained.

"A Smurf Attack, Boss, is a DOS attack," McGee began, and when he saw the perfect frustration and confusion on Gibbs' face, he tried another tack. "Okay, um, a Smurf Attack is like having every computer on a network send out chain letters to other computers, all of which carry the return address of one targeted computer, and all of them requesting a coded, surreptitious reply. The targeted computer gets flooded, and eventually crashes."

"Justin's computer was Gargamel," Abby added.

"Oh, I know this one," Ziva said. "Gargamel is the evil sorcerer, the sworn enemy of the Smurfs."

"Exactly," Tim said, his face brightening.

"Wouldn't the sworn enemy of the Smurfs try to destroy any attack?" Gibbs said, and the three were stumped. Abby looked to Ziva; Ziva looked to McGee; McGee puffed out his cheeks and held up his hand.

"Okay, we're going to work on that particular analogy," Tim said, earnest in his explanation, "but until then, all you need to know is we're actively pursuing this lead."

Gibbs, rising from his chair, taking a sip of his coffee, said, "Oh, I need to know a lot more than that."

"Yes, Gibbs," Ziva said.

"On it, Boss," McGee said.

"Gibbs, you want to see some pictures?" asked Abby, and when he paused to look into her sad, tired eyes, Gibbs quirked half a smile, walked over, and kissed her on the forehead.

"Find something," he said, leaving them to work, but not before adding, "or we're all Smurfed."

The triangle of mystified silence began again.

*****

She had worked and worked hard on the case all day, finding the banks where each check had been issued, sending a jpeg of Justin's photo to each of the branch managers, requesting corroboration of his presence at the banks. She had heard from one manager, who had checked the videos and was able to verify that it was, indeed, Justin requesting the check and that he had paid with cash. The manager said he'd send Ziva the tape immediately. The wait for the other two managers held no interest for Ziva, so she moved on to scanning videotapes from the Dismal Swamp.

She had been scanning video with Tony just forty-eight hours earlier. She'd had to force herself to really focus then, too. The picture of Tony at his computer, squinting, worried for no perceptible reason, burned in her memory. If she had known… If any of them had known…

"This isn't productive," she told herself, deciding an hour at the punching bag might clear her head. And it did, much like fasting clears one of sustenance. Working up a sweat, Ziva jabbed, hooked, crossed—both left and right—kicked and outright pummeled the heavy, scarred, leather bag. With each strike, she battled against negative thoughts. With each lacerating blow, she commandeered her careening emotions. Remain present, she demanded of herself. Mind and body, be here. With no control over what was "out there," Ziva simply decided to push it away, give it no purchase on her thoughts.

When her shoulders ached, when her hands burned, when her glutes and quads seared, Ziva called it a day, and went back to working the case, centered, calm.

Even so, every half hour, some times sooner, her chest tightened, her heart clenched, and the intense heat of anxieties scoured her limbs. By the mid-afternoon, having heard no other news other than that her partner was stable and that his external defibrillator had been removed, Ziva allowed her mind to switch gears. She stood, smoothed down her blouse, and informed Tim that she was leaving the agency for a few hours.

She had learned many years earlier that to worry while driving is to invite catastrophe, or a ticket, at the very least. Cycling through her iPod, Ziva settled on Achinoam Nini, and turned the volume up far past appropriate. She sang along, mirroring the intensity of the music, the visceral thump of the rhythm, which served its purpose—to beat out the cadence of worry.

Once at the hospital, in the parking structure, Ziva turned off the car, breathed deeply, and centered herself. She'd not enter the building unless her emotions were in control.

She was fairly sure hospitals were laid out to heighten anxieties in people. The labyrinth hallways, the incongruous wings, the septic odor, all created the perfect atmosphere to reach one's destination completely unsettled. Knowing this going in, Ziva allowed for the fact that she may take the wrong turn in one wing, she may even take the wrong elevator, and, nonetheless, continued her trek toward the CICU.

But, the route took no time at all, and Ziva reached her goal before her psyche was prepared to take it in. She stopped outside the double doors, ground her hands to her hips, and paced, repeating affirmative, positive statements to herself.

And then she berated herself for becoming too Americanized.

"Hello," she said, sailing through the double doors, striding to the nurses' desk in the cool, silent pod, "I'm here to see Anthony DiNozzo." Her hand was on her badge, ready to flash it, if needed.

"Sure." The nurse behind the desk nodded, stood, and joined Ziva on her side. "I'll take you to his bay." She began to walk away, and Ziva, slightly off-balanced by the casual attitude, simply followed behind. "Now, you need to know he's not what you'd call talkative, not yet. He's coming around, though, so it's good you're here. A friendly voice is the best medicine. You are a friend, aren't you?"

"What? Oh, yes. I am a friend."

"Well, here we are," the nurse said, and turned to Ziva. "There's not much room, but go on in."

Ziva glanced at the woman's ID, and said, "Thank you…Becky." Becky smiled and walked to Tony's side.

One look at the crowded room, at the yards of tubes that bridged the space between machines and the bed, at the screens that faced the patient, and Ziva had questions that needed instant answers. "What are all these machines?" she demanded.

"Oh, I can't tell you that," Becky said, checking Tony's monitors. "That would be against privacy rules."

A perfect time for one of Gibbs' head slaps, she thought. "Of course."

Becky moved away from the bed, and said, "Did you sanitize your hands?"

"Oh, um, no," Ziva said, the nurse's voice interrupting her true focus—trying to find Tony somewhere in the frenzy of this room. Becky motioned toward the wall container of anti-bacterial foam, and Ziva obliged, rubbing the white glop that reeked of alcohol all over her hands. Once sanitized, which Ziva knew was a stopgap measure at best, Becky invited Ziva to step up to Tony's bed. Hesitant at first, Ziva moved closer, and Becky left her with Tony.

Aside from chrome, tubes, glass, and EKG lines, all Ziva could see were blanket covered lumps. Lumps that were probably feet; then maybe knobby knees; she didn't want to think what the next lump might be; a torso, but certainly not what Ziva could even remotely state were Tony's features. She didn't trust the nurse enough to simply take her word that this was, in fact, DiNozzo. Ziva needed clear evidence. The mask of tape and plastic over his mouth obscured her vision. Eyes that were unnaturally moistened, not quite open, not quite closed, held no reassurance for her. It wasn't until she leaned over the bed and caught her first glimpse of that nose of his (a little too patrician for her taste, she had often thought, even after so many breaks) that she knew Tony was there.

Control. Center. Focus.

"Hello, Tony," she said, her tone businesslike yet bespeaking their relationship, she thought. Anything else would give way to schamltz, to pity, which, she knew, DiNozzo would never want from her or anybody. "I have come to see how you are feeling. Obviously, you are not feeling well." Ziva clasped her hands behind her back, twisting her fingers in her nervousness. "We are working hard on the—This is ridiculous," she said, backing away.

"Talk to him."

A hand on the small of her back, the quiet voice, and Ziva blushed. Of course he was there. "I do not know what to say, Gibbs."

"Doesn't matter. Just talk." His warm hand urged her to regain her position next to Tony. She glanced over her shoulder at her boss, who nodded, his mouth set in an uneven, easy smile.

So, she began again. "We've been working on the case, Tony, and, yes, I'll admit we could use your help. There is much to be done." She groused at this ridiculous circumstance, but with Gibbs so near, she persevered. "I have been talking with the Chens. Most certainly, this has been an awful ordeal, losing a child, but theirs has not been the warmest of relationships. Haven't we seen that all too often," she said, momentarily forgetting her purpose. Just as quickly, she composed herself, and refreshed her focus. "Mr. Chen—he is a good father, a concerned father, but sometimes…" Why, she wondered, was this innocuous topic affecting her so? She cleared her throat, suddenly arid, tight. Her skin peppered with nervous twitches. She wanted to leave this room, run to anywhere else. Ziva shook out her hands, rolled her neck, and when she returned to her story, her words were clipped and quick. "He is disappointed that Justin did not go into medicine. He paid Justin's college tuition hoping he'd go into medicine. When he did not, when he went into computer technology, well, Mr. Chen is of the belief that this directly lead to his murder." There. She had finished her story. Ziva inhaled sharply, readying herself to tell Gibbs that she had fulfilled her duty toward Tony when…

Did his eyelid flutter? It was a minute movement, barely perceptible, but enough that Ziva leaned closer to her partner. Gibbs saw it, too, and said, "Keep going."

Ziva's breath caught in her lungs, her own eyes fluttering with disbelief. "Um, I tried to tell…tell Mr. Chen that a college degree does not necessarily—" And there it was again, a flutter, but more. A soft crinkle of his brow, and Ziva grabbed Tony's hand, careful not to dislodge the blood oxygen monitor from his forefinger. "But you know fathers and sons. It's an ancient battle. No matter what I said, Mr. Chen remained steadfast in his beliefs. Sometimes even fathers do not know all the facts where their children are concerned," she said, barely even listening to her words, her attention and concentration glued to her partner. "Tony? Open your eyes, Tony."

As if her words were the command he'd been expecting, from the heavy fatigue that encapsulated his body, Tony's eyes edged open.

"Gibbs, do you see this? This is good. This is very good," Ziva said, not concerned in the least that she was squeezing Tony's hand, touching his arm. "Tony, I am here. Gibbs is here. We are here."

As quickly as it occurred, the brief, shining moment ended. His eyes, unfocused, glazed, had stayed open only long enough for Ziva to hope again, long enough for Gibbs to smile. And then, like a curtain descending over a quiet stage, his eyes slid shut again, his lashes spiked with artificial tears.

"His eyes did open, didn't they?" Ziva asked, searching Tony's face for another sign, and finding none.

"Yup."

The soft whir of the ventilator reminded her how sad it was to place such joy on this one autonomic response. Ziva shook her head, embarrassed that she had been so taken by the moment. She released Tony's hand and brushed her hair back from her forehead, already tightly gathered into one long chain of a braid. She choked the bedrail, and said, "And so what if his eyes did open."

"It's important," Gibbs told her, placing one large, warm hand over hers. "You did that."

"Did what?" she asked, unconvinced and deeply saddened.

"He didn't open his eyes when I talked to him," Gibbs said. He let go of her hand and padded out of the room. This was a time between partners, an intimate, earned moment.

And Ziva stood with Tony, trying to hold close that fleeting couple seconds when Tony's green eyes gave her to permission to feel happiness, joy.

She would not be so easily fooled again.

*****


	6. Chapter 6

Twas the day before Christmas,

And all through the home,

Not a present was wrapped,

So I'm writing this tome.

The in-laws are cradled

In their guest room

They came four days early

So I sit here and fume.

What is to be done

When in such a mood?

Escape with a fanfic

And change your attitude.

And so I wish all

A happy holiday

Here are a few pages

To keep you all at bay.

Merry, Merry! Happy New Year! Belated Happy Hannukah! Here's to longer days, one minute of sunshine at a time. I'm off to the pool!

*****

"If you hurry, we should be fine," Ducky said, holding out his hand, guiding them through the double doors. He checked his watch—7:35. Yes, they would be fine. Visiting hours weren't over for another 25 minutes.

Abby wove her arm through Tim's, her eyes wide and her lips pressed tight together. Tim felt the tension in her body, so he pulled Abby closer. "It'll be all right, Abs."

"Oh, I know," she said. Her ice-blue eyes held a bead on Ducky's head, never blinking, never lagging in their intensity.

She and Tim had called ahead, making sure with Ducky that it was okay for them to drop in on their friend. Ducky had said yes, with some reservations. "Perhaps your presence will be just what he needs," Ducky had told Abby, which fortified Abby's insistence that they go.

While they walked through the ward, Ducky brought them up to speed on Tony's condition—he had been implanted successfully with a pacemaker; he was weak, though getting stronger; still ventilated, but being weaned. "Tony is attempting that long journey back," he said, coming to a stop outside Tony's bay. Abby tried to peek around the wall, so anxious was she to see her friend. Ducky stopped her with a strong hand. "You need to be prepared, Abigail."

"What are you saying, Ducky?" Abby asked, apprehension filling her features.

Ducky measured his words before saying, "Sometimes, when a patient is coming out of sedation, the Reptilian Brain kicks into power."

"The 'fight or flight' response," Tim added.

"Precisely. Not quite conscious enough to understand his present circumstances, Tony only perceives that he is under attack."

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked, her head cocked to the side, worried and finding her pulse racing.

Ducky ran out of words, deciding simply to show her. He stepped aside and allowed Abby and Tim to pass, and when they did, when she caught sight of thick leather and fleece restraints cuffed around his wrists, Abby gasped.

"He tried to rip out his tubes, Abby," Ducky told her, watching her reaction. "Leave it to our Anthony to fight the very assistance he's being offered,"

"That would be Tony," McGee said, his sight never wavering from the clenched hands secured by the restraints. An inappropriate image wafted into his head, and out of sheer nervousness, he shared it with Abby. "I'm guessing this isn't the first time he's been shackled to a bed."

"Timothy," Ducky said, quieting him with a word, which Tim wished Ducky would have done before he began to speak. Tim screwed shut his eyes and mouthed an apology.

Abby stepped toward Tony, unsure at first, tentative. She had tried to prepare herself for this moment, had told herself that she'd be strong, positive. She hadn't known to prepare herself for the obsequious quiet and the fear that permeated the room, all of it surrounding her friend. Abby looked over his body—sheets in disarray round his ankles, jutting knees, feet that rustled against the bed. Yes, they were lethargic movements, unnaturally slow, but the desperate, frightened movements jarred her. And even though his breathing was regulated by the forced air entering and exiting the ventilator tube in his mouth, his chest expanding and contracting with precise regularity, and even though his hands were kept motionless by the restraints, and even though his eyes fluttered in a listless, impotent manner, it was the tension in his essence, in the energy enveloping him that brought her to his side and to weave her fingers through his.

"It's of the utmost importance that he be kept quiet," Ducky said, speaking quietly to Abby. She nodded, never taking her focus from her struggling friend.

"Hey, Tony," she said, injecting a saccharine smile into her voice. "I have missed you, like, soooo much. Major MassSpec has been acting a little wonky. Even my dinger sounds depressed. It's like my whole lab's techno-mojo is off, and I'm pretty sure it's because you're not there." She reached forward, her cool hand against his warm, tense brow. "I told Gibbs to tell you that I went out with the nuns the other night, but I'm pretty sure he forgot. Sister Rosita, um, bowled a 218, which is totally amazing. Sister Paschal, on the other hand, didn't have such a great night. One gutter after another. Oh, but the best part was her reaction—that woman has a mouth, which again—totally amazing." While she spoke, brushing his hair from his forehead, his tented knees melted under the thin bedding, his feet calmed, and the rustling ceased.

"Keep going. You're doing marvelously," Ducky said, amazed at Tony's reaction to the young woman.

"Um, so, Sister Paschal barely rolled above the century mark, and if you ask me, it was Sister Rosita's fault. She kind of taunted Sister Paschal. There was talk of shoddy sacrament-cloth ironing, and some…really…wacky correlation between the inability to get rid of the wrinkles and the inability to hit a seven-ten split." He blinked, once, twice. His fingers splayed, gripped her hand and drew it in closer. Abby thrilled in his recognition of her, and when she spoke again, it was faster, more spirited. "You know those nuns and their sacrament cloth. Probably, you don't. My point is they tend to get their panties in a bunch over making sure the altar runner is just so. Not that nuns wear panties. Or, you know, maybe they do. It's not really any of my business either way." His head turned toward her, an almost imperceptible amount, but his eyes were tracking her movements, watching her mouth as she spoke. "Hey," she said, a soft lilt in her voice, in her eyes. "Are you in there?" He shut his eyes and opened them again, a purposeful movement. "Okay, so, anyhow, I'm pretty sure Father Ray got an earful at confession the next morning. Oh, I called them, by the way, after you…you know. They're going to say a novena on your behalf, and I know you don't, like, totally get into that kind of stuff, but these are nuns we're talking about, Tony, and so you can pretty much, absolutely count on getting better. Except for Sister Rosita's novena, because it's pretty clear she became a nun through some kind of family vendetta." The lines in his face softened, the deep ridge between his eyes disappeared. "I know you don't like these cuffs. I wouldn't like them, either. It sounds so awful to say they're for your own good, but they really are, for your own good." She continued to stroke his hair, to rub the supple pad of her thumb over his eyebrow. Soon, his lids became heavy. She watched him battle sleep. "I wish I could figure out why you're here. There's nothing good about any of it." Abby leaned forward and placed a warm kiss high on his cheek, above the ventilator guard. She wiped the smudge of red lipstick from his skin and watched his eyes finally close. "Go to sleep, Tony. Timmy and I will come back tomorrow." Abby smoothed down his hair once more for good measure, sniffed away a tear that threatened to spill down her cheek, and turned to hug Ducky.

"Better than medicine, you are," he said, patting her back.

When she had disentangled her long arms from around Ducky, Abby held his attention with her insistent blue eyes. "You call me if he needs anything, okay?"

"I will, my dear."

"Thanks, Ducky," Tim said, shaking the doctor's hand. He wrapped an arm around Abby's shoulders and asked if she was ready to leave. She nodded and laced her fingers through Tim's hand. Together and in silence, they walked out of the bay, out of the ward, and into the waiting area.

"Timmy?" Abby said, stopping in the middle of the busy hallway.

"Yeah, Abs."

"If I asked to spend the night at your place, would I have to explain why?" she asked.

Tim offered a sad smile, shook his head, and said, "No, Abby, you wouldn't have to explain."

"Then I can come home with you?"

"Of course you can," he told her, kissing her on the head, continuing on down the hall. Abby walked alongside him, her tired head on his shoulder, quiet tears forming rivulets down her cheek.

*****

Green eyes. Opened. Searching for her. She had grasped his hand, had called out to him, took happiness, comfort even, in the minimal response. Then, like a heavy cloud overtaking the sun, his eyes were closed again.

And what of it? Medication wears off; eyes open. Every hour, every day, his eyes would open more. Or, perhaps not. Perhaps, she thought, allowing herself a glimpse into the darkness, this was his undoing. He had flirted with death so often before. One cannot simply dance to the brink that many times without being captured by a new dance partner, death. It was the natural cycle of life—people live, people die; good people, bad people; purposeful deaths, and deaths that have no meaning. She knew this, better than most.

Katan alai…

Believing one could control another person's life and death, let alone one's own, simply out of sheer will or desperate want was tantamount to cowardice. No, better to accept that there will be losses. Accept it, and move forward, endure the inevitable.

Ziva endured, as she had always done. Americans called it "compartmentalizing," she had learned. Yes, she compartmentalized. Put aside all but what is in front of you. Take solace in hard work. It will save you. It had when Tali died, it had when she put an end to Ari, and work had seen her through Roy's death. Work would see her through this, as well.

Katan alai…

She would endure. Numb. Hardly breathing. Her arms held tight to her sides, her hair slicked back. A steel rod could be no straighter than her spine, no less tenacious either. No less brittle.

"Ziva, got a minute?"

If one studied cell phone numbers long enough, a pattern emerges. Study the numbers, she told herself. Let it come to you…

"Ziva?"

Be present. Endure what may be. Turn away from distractions, from suffering, your own, others'.

Katan alai…

"Hey, Ziva," came the soft voice, a soft hand to match on hers. Her hands, unmoving, stiff atop the keyboard. "You okay?"

Startled, Ziva looked up into Tim McGee's concerned eyes. She shook her head, dislodging the stupor she felt herself to be in, and pulled the hem of her shirt down taut over her torso. "Yes, of course I am fine."

Tim moved back to his desk, furtively glancing her way. He had learned long ago not to second-guess Ziva. "So, I'm checking Justin's computer. Aside from the whiskers of what might be a Smurf Attack, his hard drive is clean." He sat back down at his desk and peered into the screen before him. "Doesn't that seem off to you? I mean, if I'm Justin, and I'm complicit in some cyber-technology, then why would I go to the trouble of masking my email use?"

He had asked her a question. She knew she should answer. "I'm not sure."

"Exactly," Tim said, pressing back in his chair. He stared at the ceiling and worried a piece of orange pulp stuck between his teeth while he considered the problem. Cocking one eyebrow, he said, "You don't think he's using another office computer to email? You know, kind of sharing the guilt, as it were?"

"What?" she asked, having caught none of the question, nor the inflection that might help her form an intelligible response.

Tim's eyes slid from the ceiling to Ziva. In an instant, he knew what was going on. It wasn't hard to guess. "Hey, Ziva. Worried about Tony?"

"Worried?" she said. "No. Not worried. Thinking about him, perhaps."

"Me, too," Tim said, hoping she wouldn't call him out on his lie. "So, um, about this computer…"

"After all, I have nothing to worry about. He is in an excellent hospital with excellent physicians."

"Right."

"Ducky is with him constantly."

"Yeah."

"There is no reason to worry."

"Other than," Tim said, broaching the subject, "three days ago he was, for all intents and purposes, dead on the floor right over there."

"Yes, other than that." Ziva pressed her hands flat against her desk, and said, "Have you seen him?"

"Yeah, Abs and I went last night."

"And how was he?"

Not sure where Ziva was willing to take this conversation, Tim was judicious with his words. "Uh, better," he said, "I guess."

"When I saw him, he was still sedated."

"Yeah, well," Tim began, still cringing over his reaction to the restraints, "last night, he was coming out of it."

"That is good to hear," she said.

"Yeah."

"Perhaps today he'll be more aware."

"Right."

"It would only stand to reason."

"Exactly."

"Are you going to visit him today?" she asked, a sudden lack of confidence spilling into her voice.

"Oh…I…don't…know…"

His hesitation gave her the small bit of assurance she needed. "You are his friend. You should go."

"Yes, but, you're his partner. If anybody should go, it should be you," he reminded her, eyeing her sidelong.

"This is true," she said. "But, I would not want to over-tire him."

"Now that you mention it," Tim said, "that would be bad."

"This is what I'm saying."

"Counter-productive, even," he added.

"Precisely."

"You hate it there as much as I do."

"Oh, my gawd," she said, dropping her head onto her desk. "I cannot stand it."

"That's not Tony," Tim asserted.

Ziva lifted her face and shook her head. "He is too…"

"Quiet."

"Yes."

"Still."

"Again, yes."

"There's absolutely nothing annoying about him," he said, amazed at the crux of his angst.

"Yes! Yes, that's it," Ziva said, pointing at Tim.

It felt like a weight had lifted, as if his discomfort being around his friend was a palpable guilt crushing him, and like that, it was gone. He was actually giddy from the release. "No tapping pencils, throwing paper wads, whistling songs…"

"No strange dance movements."

"My keyboard has gone unmolested for two whole days."

"I have not been asked about my sexual preferences in as many days."

"No 'probie'," they said in unison, smiling. In an instant, their smiles burned out.

And then the crushing weight was back "I should get back to work."

"So should I," Ziva said.

"Hey, Ziva?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for talking to me," Tim said.

His sincerity struck her, and she flinched. "Oh, yes. Of course."

"So, about the other computer," Tim said, turning directly back to his monitor. But when Ziva remained silent, Tim looked toward her. What he observed was a set of dark eyes, blind to everything except a swath of innocuous carpeting. And while he watched her, he realized that he wasn't the only one consumed with worry about Tony, even if she tried to make him believe different. Ziva sat motionless, obviously and sadly remembering the moment when her partner laid lifeless on the floor in front of her, his eyes closed, unresponsive.

Sometimes, things were, in fact, bigger than her.

*****

Once hiking through the Adirondacks in the predawn hours, he came to a dale encased in thick fog. Needing to go forward, yet unable to see his destination, each step was hesitant but purposefully placed; each breath labored under the viscous, humid air. He looked behind him and could not see his original path, and ahead was a shroud of translucent mist. With no clear direction to follow, with his sight obscured, he hunkered down and awaited the sun's arrival. Once it did, once the warm rays burned away the heavy earth-bound clouds, he ventured forward, bright sunlight showing the way.

Looking around his present circumstance, Tony felt as though he had woken up in that dale, but he had no idea how he had come to this place. A hospital room, he knew. He had a vague, dreamlike memory of being told something, something about his heart. It would make sense. There was a load of bricks sitting on his chest, and with every breath, a knife entered his side. Had he been shot? He didn't have a memory of being in a gunfight. Tony waded through his memory, muzzy and fractured. Tired. He remembered being tired. Ceiling tiles were part of his memory. His 1978 Dodge Colt also ghosted in and out of the mélange. The rest was gone.

Gone, too, was the cumbersome, uncomfortable tube that had snaked down his throat. That, he distinctly remembered. The loss of it and the gaining of his speech had gone a long way to clearing away great portions of the fog. He didn't necessarily like the nasal cannula, never had, but he was keenly aware that the oxygen flowing into his nose was helping him beyond measure.

"Hello?" he whispered to the vacant room. He swallowed, and found that his throat, dry and abraded, was aflame. He crushed shut his eyes against the pain. He needed water; he'd call a nurse. The call button was usually on the bedrail of these beds, he thought, but which one? His fingers slid over the surface. He pressed one, and the bed began to rise. Try another. The TV pinged to life. Another, and a crackle of sound.

"Yes?" came the distant, reedy response.

"Can I…get some…water?" he asked, hoping his voice was loud enough. Tony doubted he'd be able to muster up any other dynamic. It shocked him how much energy it had taken to simply make the request, not to mention that his arm burned from the fatigue of searching for the call button. When the nurse didn't respond, Tony tried again, fingers trying to remember which button to press. The bed began to recline. He rolled his eyes and tried again. The TV went off. "Oh, for…god's sake…"

"Ah, the Fisher King has arisen."

Tony knew that voice, and it came as a salve to him. "Ducky."

"Anthony." Ducky placed a cup on the side tray. He took Tony's hand in his and patted it earnestly with the other. "How are you, my boy?"

"Oh, ya know. No worse…than any…any other…" he said, trying to catch his meager breath between words. He washed a hand over his face and for the first time noticed the growth of having gone days without a good shave. "What day…is it?"

"Saturday," Ducky told him, peering over his glasses, realizing Tony had not quite fully come out of the sedation. "You've been here since—"

"Wednesday. Yeah, that I…remember. Kind of." Tony swallowed again, and once again his throat burned. Ducky saw the discomfort skitter across his face, and so he grabbed the cup from the tray.

"Here, try a few of these," Ducky said, offering a plastic spoon to Tony's chapped lips. Tony opened his mouth and let his friend slip the ice onto his tongue. He closed his eyes, relishing the melting chips, the most basic of comfort. "Perhaps a few more?" Ducky asked. Tony's lips gaped, and Ducky dribbled two more small ice chips onto his tongue. The cool water, modest though it was, doused the fire in his throat. "Better?"

"Oh yeah," Tony said, still enjoying the chips.

"Your doctors were in earlier. Do you remember them talking to you?"

"I remember…being called a…a pathetic idiot."

Ducky scowled. "Yes, well, I'm fairly certain that wasn't part of their message. Do you remember anything else?"

"Not really."

"Wednesday morning, in the bullpen, you went into tachycardia. Do you remember?"

Tony's focus wandered, and he blinked, searching his memory for this piece of information. "I remember my…my heart was racing."

"That's right. You collapsed."

"I remember think…thinking about my…old car," Tony whispered, strange, incongruous images filtering into his mind. "It had an accelerator…cable…that would stick. Engine used…to race."

"Ah, the mystery of the WD40," Ducky said, offering a soft smile under sad eyes. "You mentioned WD40 a number of times, once in the agency, twice—"

"Hey, Duck?" Tony said, a more pressing issue coming to his mind. "How come…I feel like somebody took a…bat to my chest and…and groin? Did I get in…a fight with…Ziva?"

Ducky laughed, placing the cup of ice back on the tray. "No," he said smiling, "not this time. The pain in your groin is from the puncture wound of having a catheter snaked up through the femoral vein to your heart?"

"Why?"

"Oh, a few reasons: diagnosis, an ablation to eradicate your tachycardia, and the insertion of an internal defibrillator," Ducky told him, all important pieces of information, common in the purview of cardiac-thoracic medicine. But, what he had not realized was the affect it would all have on Tony. "I assure you, a cardiac catheterization sounds much more dramatic than it actually is. The discomfort in your groin is from the bruising in the vein and surrounding tissues. Give it a few days," he said, hoping this would go a long way with his struck friend.

"I have a pacemaker?" Tony asked, shocking Ducky with his knowledge.

Ducky took a deep breath, and said, "Your heart, Anthony…" But what more? He needed to say something. Tony was waiting, staring at him, and Ducky could see his quick breaths condensing on the cannula tube. "The pacemaker is simply to help regulate your heartbeat, fairly common after a tachycardic event."

Tony's hand drifted to his chest, where he gripped the front of his gown. "So, the pain…in my chest?"

"I suspect the pain in your chest is from the three cracked ribs, courtesy of Jethro."

His expression peppered with anxiety, Tony asked, "Did I get in a fight…with the boss?"

"Again, no," Ducky told him, the humor in such a situation quickly waning. "He cracked your ribs while performing CPR." And then he waited. Ducky watched the slow transformation take place over Tony's features—his eyes morphed from an incredulous squint to wide-eyed fear; his jaw, from clenched to slack. "Anthony…"

"Where am I?" he asked, hardly able to make his voice heard.

"You're in the cardiac intensive care unit," Ducky told him, and Tony visibly deflated. Ducky wished he didn't have to be the one to bring the awful reality to his friend. What to leave out; what to keep in. Ducky weighed each part of the story against the others. "When you collapsed, the tachycardia led to fibrillation, which isn't uncommon. Jethro began CPR while we waited for the external defibrillator. We administered two electrical shocks to your heart before it regained its normal rhythm. Once inside the ambulance, you coded again."

Tony's eyes fluttered, overwhelmed by the story. "There's a…happy ending to…this, right, Duck?"

Ducky checked the monitors, aware of how much stress these emotional revelations could place on an already fragile condition. "Anthony, why don't I—"

"Tell me…the rest."

Ducky peered into Tony's face, saw the battle between fear and stoicism. "You've had a myocardial infarction. A—"

"Heart attack," Tony said, turning away from Ducky, away from the alarming, horrible truth. He grasped hold of the bedrail, maybe to anchor himself, maybe to stop his hands from shaking.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. That being said," Ducky continued, trying to inject a modicum of hope into the talk, "on the spectrum of severity, your infarction was rather mild. Unfortunately…"

"More with the…unfortunatelies,…Duck?"

Ducky nodded, wishing he didn't need to go on. "Unfortunately, your heart was already damaged. It seems you've been ill for quite some time."

"The plague?"

"Possible, though not probable," Ducky said, knowing his answer, based on his own empirical evidence, did not provide comfort to his friend. "More probably, you contracted a myocardial virus of idiopathic origins."

Tony's focus shifted back to Ducky, and he said, "Pathetic what?"

"Pathetic…?" Ducky started, and then comprehension dawned on him. "Another mystery solved," he said, smiling. "No, idiopathic origin, meaning the origin of your virus is unknown."

"So if…it's unknown…"

Ducky knew where Tony was going with the question. "You must keep in mind that you are in a very good hospital, and you have a crack team of doctors who are at this moment working on a diagnosis and treatment for you," he said, placing a warm hand on Tony's shoulder.

"Treatment," Tony whispered, once again closing his eyes. It was all too much. Too damn much. "Okay. Okay." He wanted to escape, to deny it all. His hand moved to his aching brow.

"Anthony," Ducky whispered, taking hold, once again, of Tony's hand. "Anthony—"

"Duck?"

"Yes."

Tony took a moment, needed a moment to pull it together. To breathe, or try. He choked down the constriction in his throat, and waited until he was sure he could say what he needed to say without…losing it.

"You're tired," Ducky said, hoping to save his friend from having to speak any heavy, heart-rending words. "Get some sleep. I'll—"

"Um, I'm, uh," Tony began, staring at the benign ceiling. "I'm gonna…walk outa this…place, right?"

When he saw the abject fear in Tony's eyes, when he was quite sure that Tony understood all too well the perilous situation, Ducky wanted nothing more than to lie to him, pretend it wasn't as bad as it seemed. He respected Tony too much for that. "You have a long road ahead of you. You must think positively. You must—"

But Tony waved off any further pep talk. He couldn't hear any more. Just… Please don't talk, he managed to convey with one quick gesture of his hand.

In the span of a few, quick minutes, he had found out he'd collapsed in the bullpen, he'd had a heart attack, and had a whole team of doctors working to keep him alive. No, math had never been his strong suit, but when he added up all of those items, Tony found the bottom line terrifying. Think positively. Yeah, right. Easier said than done. He clenched his jaw, shook his head, and swallowed against his pain.

"The important thing to remember, Anthony, is—"

"God!" Tony cried, knocking his fist on the bedrail. "This sucks."

Ducky nodded, and said, "I couldn't have said it better myself."

"I'm too young," he stated. "Right? I mean…it's not like…I'm a smoker, or…Okay, I eat a…little too much…a lot of red…meat, but…"

"This isn't heart disease," Ducky said. "This is…different."

"Different good, or…different…you know?"

"Different." The heart disease, the enlargement of his ventricles, the reconstruction of the heart—Ducky put those aside. There would be time to pile more on, but he was aware of the fragility in Tony's spirit, and he wished not to further the young man's consternation. "Anthony, how can I help?"

How could he help? There was no way.

"Anthony, the team, your team, Jethro, Abby, Ziva and Timothy are waiting to see you. I have been left strict orders from Abby that I am to call as soon as you are able to take visitors," Ducky said, his voice low. "Perhaps it would be best if they waited another day?"

"No," Tony said.

"Pardon me?"

"No." Tony drew in breath, the burning pain of it against broken ribs furthering his agony and fatigue. "No. Just…just give me a…couple hours."

"Are you sure?"

On Wednesday, Tony was sitting at his desk, part of a team. He was Anthony DiNozzo, the senior NCIS very Special Agent. On this Saturday morning, Tony lay in a hospital bed, tethered to more machines and monitors than he could count. His ribs ached, his lungs were lead, his mind raced, and a different moniker became attached to him—Anthony DiNozzo, cardiac patient.

Tony longed for the fog of sedation.

*****


	7. Chapter 7

Okay, here's a good long one. Long being relative and all. It was actually supposed to be about three more scenes longer, but I thought 7,000 per chapter was good enough. For all of you who wondered where Gibbs has been, here ya go. For all who wonder what the hell is going on with Tim, I swear I have a plan. For all who wonder if I'll go all Tiva on ya, no. Not in this one. For all who have sent such lovely words of encouragement, thank you. For my students who are freaks—and you know who you are…--ain't it fun to play with words?! Remember, the name—you pinky promised me!

Happy New Year to all!

*****

She had given him beef broth, at least she said it was beef broth. It wasn't the savory, dark-caramel colored consommé he remembered from his youth. God, how his family's cook could deliver the goods, all created for the discerning palate. Aspic, consommé, pate, assorted other delicacies with duck livers—most of it lost on an eight-year-old. It was no wonder how Tony came to love cafeteria food so much once he was shipped off to boarding school.

Still, their cook's consommé was amazing, and this, the hospital's dirty water, masking itself as broth in its brown, plastic cup, was most definitely not Cook's creation.

Even so, the tepid, anemic soup helped fill a need Tony didn't even know existed. He hadn't been hungry before he sipped it, but it settled like velvet in his stomach, and from it sprang the seedlings of hope and resilience.

And he'd need it. His gaggle of doctors came in a few hours after Ducky had left, around noon, or so Tony thought. Time was a liquid commodity for him. It flowed through his mind like the winding run-off through fields after a flood. When the doctors began to talk, Tony screwed shut his eyes and forced himself to listen carefully and try to follow the flow of the conversation. Even so, whole chunks of information were missing, and Tony wasn't quite sure when or how he had faded. But the doctors went on. They bandied about words like dilated ventricles, mitral and tricuspid valves, creatinine phosphokinase, cardiac output, pulmonary embolism, edema. They offered strategies such as ACE inhibitors, beta-blockers, resynchronization therapy, diuretics, anti-coagulants.

When Tony asked about a time-line, the young doctor, who looked like he'd been called away from his X-Box (and was pissed about it), said, "You have to think in terms of months, not days."

"No, wait," Tony managed, the implications of that explanation reeling in his mind, "I guess what I'm trying to say is, what's…next? I mean do I have…to take something? What…?"

"Mr. DiNozzo," the eldest doctor said, "this isn't simply a matter of curing a virus. There is no cure for the virus. What we're talking about is chronic heart failure. The treatment plan we're creating to maintain what is left of your heart."

"Excuse me?" Tony said, but after that, he didn't hear much.

A few minutes later, when the doctors had moved along and a nurse had scurried into his room to check his incision point, he blushed, but didn't say a word. When she reached across his bed, and the heat from her skin brushed against his, Tony didn't respond. The words "chronic heart failure" were an oppressive force that dampened every outward reaction. It encapsulated him in a world of fear and panic, of bundled nerves and black, cavernous complications.

In spite of the fear, perhaps due to it, Tony drifted in and out for the next few hours. Occasionally, the soft beep of monitors or the ubiquitous chatter from the staff roused him, but his eyes, heavy with sleep, would shut again. In the middle of the afternoon, his smiling nurse cruised into his bay and told Tony he was doing so well that they were transferring him out of the cardiac intensive care unit and into the step-down unit. "Isn't that great?"

"Is it?"

"Yes, it is," she said, reaching under his sheets, snapping off ECG leads connected to his ankle pulse points. She smoothed down the sheets, and with quick hands reached under his gown and disconnected the rest of the leads covering his torso. "As soon as I can get you disconnected," she said, pulling the loose wires through the neck of his gown, "we'll get you out of here."

"But, what if… I mean on the way…to the other room," he said, suddenly very much awake, "what if I…have another… I mean…"

His nurse stopped her busy work and looked him straight in the eye. "If we thought you were in any danger, we wouldn't be transferring you. The trip to the step-down unit is only a couple minutes. I'll be with you the whole time."

"What if, you know," he said, holding her focus, "I have another…heart attack?"

She smiled, gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, and said, "You won't. See this IV? This, we don't disconnect. And through this, you've been getting furosemide to reduce the fluid retention around your heart and in the rest of your body, and heparin to reduce clotting."

"So, I guess I'd better…be careful shaving, huh?" he said, taking a modicum of comfort in her words. She let loose a soft chuckle and patted his chest.

"We also won't be disconnecting your Foley catheter," she told him, continuing her work of readying him for transport. "We're monitoring your urine output very carefully for things like different enzymes that might indicate heart attack. So, you see, Mr. DiNozzo, we have you covered. Just have a little faith."

Faith. What faith did he have? He grew up expectant of faith. Of family. Of love. He used to have faith in his body. Used to crow about it as a God-given gift to women, nay, humanity. And when his body began to betray him, a part of him crumbled. Faith, she said. What was faith?

When they rolled him and his bed out of his room and through the ward, he closed his eyes. He didn't want to look into the face of inquisitive passers-by, and he didn't want them to look at him, wondering with their eyes what was wrong with the poor bastard. Hell, he barely wanted to know.

Once in the step-down unit, his new nurse, a woman named Emily, Em, Glenda—why couldn't he remember these things?—asked him if he'd like something to drink. Aside from the ice chips Ducky had given him, Tony couldn't remember the last time he'd had anything to drink. She told him he was okay-ed for a liquid diet, and asked if a little beef broth would sound good.

"Um, yeah," Tony told her, and this miniscule opportunity to decide something for himself buoyed him. "Yeah, I'd like…that."

"You do well with that, we'll get you some apple juice," she said, raising the head of his bed. "Okay?"

"Yeah." Tony looked around the room for the first time, and realized how long it had been since he was elevated more than thirty degrees.

"Still okay?" she asked.

"Yeah." He blinked, and noticed a TV in the upper corner of his room. At least he had that. He scanned the room and looked for the ECG with all the lines attached to it. "Aren't you going to…connect me to the monitor?"

"Only as needed from this point forward. Open up," she said, snapping a sterile cover on the tip of a digital thermometer. Tony opened his mouth and lifted his tongue. Moments later, she pronounced him fever-free. Blood pressure next, followed by a check of his Foley catheter collection bag. She pulled his chart from the bin and began to record the numbers she had collected.

The gentle light of the late afternoon filtered through the vertical blinds covering the window, and Tony found himself drawn to the warm glow. "Can you open the blinds? I haven't seen daylight in…a few days."

"Sure." The nurse replaced his chart, rounded his bed and drew back the blinds. The setting beyond the window was a different wing of the hospital, not the bucolic, pastoral scene Tony's mind had quickly conjured up. Still, the light was inviting, and it helped ground him in the present, in a tangible moment of time.

"Now for the good stuff," she said, opening a hermetically sealed piece of equipment. "Time for some exercises. This is an—"

"Incentive spirometer," Tony said, eyeing it with great displeasure. "Yeah, I know."

"Oh?" she said, mentally flipping through his chart. "When?"

"I had pneumonia a…few years back." Tony held out his hand, and the nurse placed the breathing apparatus in his grip. He pulled the plastic gauge to his body, balanced it on his stomach, and rested. Past experience told him the first couple days hurt like hell.

"Take your time," she said, watching him carefully.

Another moment before continuing, and Tony grabbed the mouthpiece. He licked his parched lips, knitted his brow, and placed the tube in his mouth. He knew the pain that was to follow, but also knew how insistent nurses could be. Marshalling all his will, Tony inhaled. The piston inside the graduated cylinder floated just above the starting level, and the nurse began to count to five. With each passing number, Tony's agony increased—ribs seared, lungs spasmed. At five, he spat out the mouthpiece and coughed, which felt like razor blades and barbed wire cutting into his chest. He clenched the front of his gown, and drew his knees up. A sheen of sweat began to dapple his brow. His jaw quavered of its own accord.

"Good. Four more," she said, touching the tube to his lips. He glanced up at her, hoping she'd see the distress he was in, knowing she wouldn't. He swallowed back his pain, exhaled, nodded, and felt the mouthpiece on his lips. "Okay? Good. And…one. Two. Three. Four. Five." Again, Tony expelled the tube. He pressed his head back into his pillow, closed his eyes, and clenched his jaw.

"God," he uttered through his teeth.

"You're doing fine." She gave him a moment to recuperate, and then they began again. Again, the misery was unrelenting.

He remembered the last time he'd had to use one of these devices. His lungs were glue, and his brain swam with stars from the lack of oxygen. But he knew he'd get better. Gibbs had told him he would, and he always believed his boss.

But Gibbs wasn't with him, and Tony wasn't sure he'd believe him this time, anyhow. You recover from pneumonia; you don't recover from heart failure.

"Can you try another?"

"It's just that," Tony whispered, keeping his eyes closed, hoping it would help conserve some of his waning energy, "this really hurts."

"I know," she said, but there was no backing off in her intention, and Tony knew it would be better just to get it over with.

"Come on," he said, gesturing toward his mouth. She eased the mouthpiece over his lips, and offered a few words of encouragement that Tony did not hear. He puffed at air, tried to forget about the white-hot poker he felt jabbing into his chest.

"Ready?" she asked, and Tony nodded. He began to inhale, and she began to count. The piston rose, faltered, and fell, all before the nurse reached three. She stopped, and Tony regrouped, coughing. A moan escaped his throat, and his humiliation furthered.

"Here we go," she prodded. "Almost there."

His hand crawled up his chest, and his weak fingers helped support the accordion tube in his mouth. He sealed his shaking lips around the tube, tried to relax, and began again. Breathe, he told himself. Don't think. Breathe…

"Three. Four. Five."

Tony let the mouthpiece dribble off his lips. He was as close to crying as he'd felt in a long time, and that alone brought him an incising sort of misery.

His nurse placed the spirometer on the bedside tray. "It'll get better," she told him, rubbing his shoulder.

"Yeah, I know," he told her, still holding his chest. "Should I…have this much pain? I mean, is it possible…that I'm having…"

"Where are you feeling the pain?" she asked.

Tony thought about it. "Uh, in my chest."

"I need you to be more specific."

He closed his eyes and tried to centralize the location. "Above my sternum. Under my…collarbone. The side of my…ribcage."

She leaned a hip into his bed, crossed her arms over her chest, and said, "Well, your blood pressure is fine, and your pulse is a little elevated, but that's from the breathing exercises. How about in your jaw? Do you feel any pain there?"

Tony's fingers touched his cheek, and he worked his jaw back and forth. "No."

"Your arm?"

"No."

"Then, I'm going to say it's the broken ribs and the inactivity over the past few days." She stripped off her gloves, tossed them in the bio-hazard container, and returned to his bedside.

"Yeah, but, I had a…heart attack a couple…days ago," he told her.

The nurse clucked her tongue against her cheek, and said, "Man, I wish they had written that in your chart."

Tony stared at her, mouth agape, his breath seized. And then he relaxed. "You're kidding. Of course you are."

"I am." She smiled at him, tapped the bedrail, and said, "If you were having a cardiac event, I'd know it. Believe me."

"Enzymes in my urine," Tony whispered, suddenly very tired.

"That, and I've been doing this a long time," she said, lowering his bed a smidge. "Relax a while. I'll go get your broth."

"Thanks," Tony said, or so he hoped. His eyes slipped shut before he reached the end of his word.

He had no idea how long he'd been asleep, but when his nurse reappeared at his side, calling out his name, the sun was all but gone, and Tony suffered the oddest, most profound sense of loss over it.

"Mr. DiNozzo," she said, wheeling the bedside tray in front of him and taking the paper cover off the cup of broth. "I have your soup."

His mouth was sticky, and his teeth felt thick with plaque against his tongue. But the faint smell of beef broth roused his senses. An image, unbidden and exhumed from years of memories, came to him, that of his childhood bedroom, a white, wooden bed tray on his lap, and a bowl of steeping consommé just waiting for him. The steam wafted into his nose, rich and savory, and he simply smelled it, one sniff after another.

"Our cook used to bring me…broth when I was sick," he said, engulfed by the memory. "It was the only time I was…allowed to have food in my…room."

"Well, I hope this won't be too disappointing," she said.

When he opened his eyes, he looked down, hoping to find that same porcelain bowl, filled with the complex broth. What he found was so distinctly different that he found himself taken aback by the disappointment.

"You okay?" she asked, peering into his sad eyes.

Tony swallowed, regrouped, and said, "No crackers?"

"Maybe tomorrow," she said, raising the head of his bed a little more. "Can you manage, or do you need my help?"

His machismo told him to make some sexual innuendo. His fatigue stopped him and made him question his own strength. "Um, I think I can do it," he told her.

"Then, I'll check back in a few," she said.

In her wake, Tony grasped hold of the cup, his fingers trembling against the slick plastic. He lifted the cup, and was surprised by the lack of strength in his arm. He drew his other hand around the cup, and finally he was able to bring it to his lips. He sipped the broth, and pulled a face.

"Cook's definitely not on the payroll," he said to no one. Even so, he lifted the cup again. Neither full of taste nor steaming hot, it helped. How, he wasn't sure. With each sip, he felt something renew in him—energy, strength, wakefulness. Hope.

It was a start.

*****

Gibbs got the call from Ducky on his way home. He took a U-ey in the middle of the street and headed for the hospital. On the way, he called Abs, figuring telling her the news was the best use of his time. She'd call the rest and round up the troops faster than he ever could. Or want. He also figured by the time they got the news, by the time they figured out who'd drive, and all the other minutiae that made him crazy, Gibbs would have been at the hospital a good twenty minutes before them. That was good. He wanted to see the man without the others around. He thought there might be some talk about the CPR, and he didn't want Tony to have to recount the episode in front of the others. Gibbs wanted to spare him that.

He couldn't spare him much else. Yes, it was good news that he was out of the CICU, was sitting up, talking, all of that. But he also knew what Ducky had told Gibbs, and he alone, that DiNozzo was far from healed, and, in fact, might possibly be worse than any of them expected.

"What are we talking about, Duck?" Gibbs had asked over the phone.

"I placed a call to his cardiologist, a wonderful physician, by the way," Ducky said. "Anthony is lucky to have him."

"Waiting, Ducky." Gibbs checked his rearview mirror and crossed over two lanes to make a quick left-hand turn.

"As I was saying, I talked to his cardiologist, and there is much more damage to his heart than they initial suspected."

"Meaning?"

"Well, as you can imagine, it means a number of different things."

"No, I can't imagine, Ducky," Gibbs said, frustrated by the obfuscation, as well as the idiot drivers who dared to share the road with him.

"What it doesn't mean is a quick hospital stay for our very special agent."

"I figured as much," he said, checking the intersection before rolling through a blinking red light. "I'll call the rest. Thanks, Duck." Gibbs clapped shut the phone and slid it into his jacket pocket. He wasn't sure on the specifics, but if anything, Jethro was a realist, a pragmatic man. But he was also a man of great intuition who didn't allow statistics to get in the way of possibilities. And Anthony DiNozzo was a man of infinite possibilities. Or so he hoped.

The trek through the hospital and to the step-down ward was a much less complicated affair. He signed in at the nurses' desk, received DiNozzo's room number, and made his way down the hall. The ward itself was more in keeping with what he was used to seeing—private rooms with doors; rooms with windows and chairs; fewer machines. All of which pleased Gibbs and helped to alleviate the faint twitters of nerves he tried so hard to deny.

When he reached DiNozzo's room, a woman's voice from inside stopped him. She was giving Tony instructions, and the soft lilt to her voice sparked something in Gibb's memory. It was familiar, this voice, the inflection on certain words, the timbre. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

"That's right," she said, her hand in DiNozzo's, while DiNozzo sat propped up on the edge of his bed. He held tight to his IV pole, his feet covered in cheap light-blue socks. This woman, a nurse, Gibbs realized, helped pull a second gown over Tony's shoulders, snapping it in place. "That should help cut down on any cool breezes," she said, grasping his upper arm. "Here we go. I got ya." Tony pushed off his bed, held her hand, the metal IV pole, and together, slowly, they shuffled away from the bed. Tony's breath came as stutters over rounded lips.

"You look good, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, entering the room.

Tony peeled his focus from the ground and stopped. This wasn't the nurse's voice, unless he was beginning to hallucinate, which was a distinct possibility. He glanced toward the sound, and there he was. "Boss." Something vibrated inside him, and with a greater sense of purpose, he continued the long trek to his chair. Once there, his nurse helped line Tony up, had him grab both her hands, and lowered him into the chair.

Gibbs persisted on smiling that lopsided smile at his senior agent, even though the paradox of the moment tore at him—on the one hand, pleased to see Tony up and about; on the other hand, distressed to see him so frail. Gibbs made sure Tony didn't see the distress in his eyes.

Seated, Tony pressed his head into the back of the chair and tried to relax in this new position. His nurse had told him it was important—"You've been in bed for four days. It's time to get up. You wouldn't want an embolism. We'll start with an hour sitting in the chair, if you can handle it. By the end of the week, we'll have you doing laps around the ward." The end of the week and the mileage seemed an impossible goal to him at the moment. The ten-foot walk had depleted him. His muscles burned, his throat constricted around his air. And even though she had reassured him that he wasn't on the verge of another heart attack, Tony wasn't ready to dismiss the threat.

"How ya feeling, Tony?" Gibbs asked, leaning against the end of Tony's bed, his arms folded across his chest.

"Just couldn't…be better, Boss," he said, clenching the armrest.

"Well, Leroy Jethro Gibbs," his nurse cooed.

And then Gibbs remembered who she was. He lowered his eyes, quirked his lips into a tight grin, let his head bob a little, and said, "How are ya, Dorothy?"

"Dorothy," Tony whispered, finally remembering his nurse's name. After another moment, it occurred to Tony what had just transpired. He opened his eyes and took in the scene before him. Immediately, he read the situation: his boss's goofy reaction, his nurse's sudden loss of interest in her patient. He turned his attention to Dorothy, who was beaming at Gibbs, and said, "You're a redhead."

She was still smiling at Gibbs when the sound of Tony's voice registered in her brain. "Oh. What? A redhead? Oh, right."

"How's…?" Gibbs said, cocking his head to the side, and Tony watched Dorothy blush. The man had the moves, Tony thought.

"Bill. He's good," she said. "Yeah, he's… Well, it's going on five years."

"No kidding?"

"And you? How's…?"

"Oh, you know me. Slow learner," Gibbs told her, his blue eyes twinkling.

"Oh, no," she said, her hand coming to rest over her cleavage, which Gibbs, a master of body language, correctly interpreted as "go ahead, take a look." His eyes lowered, and he laughed. Dorothy relished the sight of her former tryst for just a moment longer, and then returned her attention to Tony. "Okay, so, I'll check in on you. Don't try to get up on your own. Keep you arms lower than your shoulders. You know the drill. Is there anything you need before I take off?" she asked, drawing the edges of the second gown over his knees, allowing him a smidge of modesty.

"No, thanks," Tony said.

Dorothy checked his IV one last time, offered him a smile, and turned to Gibbs. "Great to see you, Jethro," she said, cupping his face with her cool hands.

"You, too, Dorothy," he said, accepting a kiss on his cheek. And then she was gone, and Gibbs quashed any questions DiNozzo might have with one look. Tony received the message loud and clear. After all, Dorothy would be his nurse for at least a couple days. He was fairly sure the subject might come up…

"So, Boss," Tony began, trying to force some gusto in his voice and coming up quite short of the mark, "I heard you gave me CPR."

"Yup," Gibbs said, proud of his senior agent for getting right to the point.

"Uh," Tony said, finding the obvious words seemed deficient. After all, the man had saved his life. "Uh…"

"You're welcome," Gibbs said.

Tony nodded. Gibbs understood. But, then, with a playful squint in his eyes, he added, "Actually, Boss, by my count, if you…think about it, that makes us even."

"Yeah, I suppose we are."

"Damned distasteful thing."

"Not one for the memory book."

"We're never talking about it."

"We're in agreement," Gibbs answered, grinning.

Tony smiled back, catching his breath. "But, you know, before we put a…close to this, there's one more thing," he said, lifting his hand and his index finger. "I never broke your ribs when…I gave you CPR."

Gibbs let loose a hearty laugh, and said, "Come on, DiNozzo. Do you really think you could have?"

Tony rolled his eyes, amused, and said, "Way to kick a guy when…he's down, Boss."

Gibbs shrugged his shoulders and wiped a hand over his smile. It was good to take part in this kind of banter. It signaled a return, if only to a fraction of what was.

"Hey, Boss?"

"Yeah," Gibbs said, still chuckling.

"I don't know if you heard," Tony said, the humor gone from his voice, "but I had…a heart attack." The news was still fresh and horrifying to him, so he thought it may have the same affect on Gibbs.

"Yup, I think I heard that," Gibbs told him. His eyes softened, and he set his mouth in a sympathetic line.

"I just found out this morning." Tony tried to laugh, tried to diminish the ominous nature of the prognosis. When that didn't even begin to budge the thing, Tony clamped shut his jaw and rubbed his burning eyes.

Gibbs had wondered how long it was going to take. A man doesn't have his life yanked out from under him and then just go blithely on. Jethro grabbed the straight-backed chair tucked away in the corner of the room, and set it next to Tony's. He sat down and glanced around the room, anywhere but in Tony's direction, an unspoken message to the man that Gibbs was giving him some time to get it together. After a moment, he coiled his arms across his chest, tilted back in his chair, crossed his ankles, and pressed one shoulder toward Tony. "So," he said, keeping his voice quiet, calm, "let's talk."

"Not much to talk about, Boss," Tony said, unable to even glance at his mentor.

Gibbs jutted his lower jaw forward, nodded. "Tough couple days."

"Yeah, that's…that's what they tell me."

When he stopped to think about the last few days, Gibbs realized that he probably knew more about what had taken place than Tony did. He wasn't sure if this was a blessing or curse where Tony was concerned. "How ya doin'?"

Tony leaned back his head, coughed, which didn't hurt as much as he thought it might, and considered how to answer that simple question. He had to be guarded about his words—too maudlin, and Gibbs might lose respect for him. To flip, and Gibbs might lose respect for him. Either way, he couldn't afford that kind of loss.

"I feel," he finally said, "like I've had a heart attack."

Anyone could see the man was hurting in about twelve different ways, so Gibbs decided it was time to end the small talk. He grabbed hold of the seat of his chair and pivoted it so he could come face to face with his senior agent, his friend. He anchored his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together, and spoke gently to his friend and co-worker. "Hey, DiNozzo? This is bad, I know. But you're gonna be fine."

Having grown tired of this dismissive, worthless consolation, Tony just focused his sightline on the ceiling and breathed.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs said, inoculating his voice with a certain amount of authority, which failed to accomplish anything. This wasn't the time to bark out an order to the man, he understood, and so he modified his voice, his intent. "Anthony?"

It was the compassion in the Gibbs' voice that finally touched something in DiNozzo. It was the quiet, kind way he had used his given name that afforded Tony the strength to turn his stricken face to his boss.

Gibbs took in the etched lines on Tony's forehead, the dark smudges of pain and sleep deprivation around his eyes. "You're young and you're strong. Plus, you're just about the most stubborn son of a bitch I've ever known. I'm not going to lie and say this will all go away in a week. We both know it won't. But, you're gonna come out on the other end."

Tony choked down a disconcerting lump in his throat, and whispered, "How do you know?"

Gibbs drew up one side of a smile, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I just do."

"One of those gut things?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, but," Tony said, pressing forward a voice above a whisper, "all I'm sayin' is…I was having one of…those gut things, Boss, and it turned…out to be heart failure."

Gibbs reached out, patted Tony's hand, and said, "Trust me. Have I ever let you down before?"

Tony thought about that question before answering it. True, the man had ordered him to survive a Y. Pestis attack, and, following orders, Tony had lived. But, that was before all of this. "Hey, Boss?"

"Yeah, DiNozzo."

"Will you think less of…me if I say I'm having a…hard time believing in your…gut?" Tony said.

Gibbs tossed back in his chair, laughing. "Well, ya know, I guess I would too if I had a heart the size of a breadbox in my chest."

Finally, a smile. And then a chuckle. And then a moan, backed up by a low growl of a laugh. "You're a cruel man, Jethro Gibbs."

Gibbs wove his fingers behind his head and grinned, lost in a memory. "I seem to remember Dorothy saying the same thing to me."

Tony closed his eyes, panting through the laughter that simultaneously brought him great comfort and knifing pain. "Who the hell uses…a breadbox, anyway?"

"My dad," Gibbs proudly told him.

"All due respect, Boss," Tony said, "your dad is…one-hundred-and-eighty-years old."

"Tony!" came the high-pitched voice, and both DiNozzo and Gibbs turned their attention to the door where Abby stood, arms outstretched. "Okay, so, I'm not gonna hug you. Not right now. Soon, though. When you're not so…" She stopped, closed one eye and screwed up her lips, thinking of the right words. "Anyhow, in lieu of me coming over there and potentially crushing you with my arms, which, I think you and I both know I can do, you'll have to settle for this." She encircled her body with her long arms, closed her eyes, and sighed. "This is me giving you a hug."

A spasm overtook his lungs, and Tony coughed, and then groaned. Abby's eyes flew open. She rushed to him, and said, "Am I hurting you?"

"No," he mouthed, offering her his hand. Abby placed her black-gloved hand in his, and he pressed it against his heart. "Thanks, Abs." She beamed at him, kissed his forehead, and stepped back.

"Hey there, Tony," Tim said, waving from the door.

"Hey, Tim. Come on in." Tim edged into the room, uncomfortable as a Dell salesman in an Apple store.

Gibbs stood up, grabbed his chair, and moved it out of the way. Crossing the room, he gave Tony's shoulder a gentle squeeze, and as their eyes met, a brief, powerful moment, Tony silently thanked his boss.

"Sweet!" Abby announced, jumping onto Tony's bed, grabbing his breathing device from the tray. "A spirometer!"

"You want it?" Tony asked.

"No, thanks. I already have one," she said, placing it back where it came from, stretching herself out on his bed. "Soooo much fun at a party, by the way."

"So, uh," Tim began, motioning toward Tony's IV, "I noticed you lost a lot of your…your…"

"ECG leads?" Tony said, hoping Tim wasn't actually venturing in a weirder direction.

"Yeah, those, and…the…" Tim signed an awkward approximation of the assorted tubes that once had snaked down Tony's throat.

Tony blinked, and said, "Ventilator?"

Tim nodded, pointed at Tony, and said, "Right. That. Those."

Abby watched Tim, knowing he was gearing up to say some strange, nervous thing. "McGee…"

"It's just that the last time I saw you, all I could think of was Locutus. As in, 'I am Locutus of Borg,'" Tim said, a feeble attempt at an impression of Patrick Stewart. When they all looked at him with squinted, questioning eyes, Tim went on. "You know—Locutus. 'Resistance is futile.' The Borg. Jean Luc Picard." He turned to Abby and said, "He had…wires, and this… Am I the only—"

"Timmy, as displacement strategies go," Abby said, quieting him with her pity-filled voice, "that was one of the wackier connections. I mean, don't get me wrong, I totally get it, but," she went on, tilting her head in sympathy, "so not right."

"Sorry," Tim said, embarrassed once again by this adventure into uncomfortable land.

"Don't sweat it, Tim," Tony told him.

"Hello, Tony."

Tony turned from Tim's red face to where his partner stood, her hands deep in her coat pockets, her face set in a perfectly neutral expression. All but her eyes, which darted between Tony and Gibbs and Abby and Tim, then back to Tony.

"Ziva."

"How are you?" she asked, but it came out more of an obligatory statement than an expression of concern, and she pinched the side of her leg with her fingers inside her pocket.

"The doctors tell me I have…a big heart," he said, hoping to ease her tension with a little humor. "I told them my partner…has been telling me…that for years."

She eyed him sidelong, and then snorted. "Yes, this is what I have said."

"There was also…mention, by some of…the nurses, of my big, throbbing…arteries," he said.

"I take it the sedation has not completely worn off," she retorted, one eyebrow lifted.

For the next minutes, scattered conversations crisscrossed the room, all of them for Tony's entertainment, as well as for a chance to be together once again. Ziva came to sit on the armrest of Tony's chair, sharing inappropriate quips with her partner. Abby and Tim brought Tony up to speed on the case. Dorothy entered and advised Tony to use his spirometer, which Abby was all too willing to help him do. The buoyancy of having his team around him made the exercise almost tolerable. Even so, it took a toll on his system. He didn't want to tell his friends how tired he was becoming, how difficult it was becoming to follow their conversations. So, he smiled and tried to laugh when they did. Dorothy injected his IV with his medications, and discreetly told Gibbs that one was a weak sedative— "You may want to start saying your goodbyes." Gibbs thanked her, and told his team that they had a couple minutes left.

"I'm fine," Tony told them, and turned to Gibbs. "Boss, I'm…fine."

"Yeah, give it a minute," Gibbs said, smirking.

"Hey, Tim, you got a new book…in the hopper?" Tony asked, hoping to elongate the evening.

"Uh," Tim began, and shared an incredulous look with Abby, "yeah, I… I mean I have the basic plot structure." Abby shrugged her shoulders.

"That's good," Tony said, dabbing his lips with a suddenly listless tongue. "I'm glad."

When Gibbs caught a glimpse of Tony's drooping eyes, he leaned down, rested an arm across the back of Tony's chair, and whispered, "DiNozzo, you all right?"

Tony looked around the room, at his friends, his partners. His day had begun so desperately. And yet, here, in this cramped, dimly lit room, at the end of his day, Tony allowed a brief moment of ease to grace him. "Yeah, Boss. I'm just a little…punky."

He didn't want it to end. He wanted them to stay, to see him through the long night. To keep talking so that he'd fall asleep by their laughter and wake up to their earnest discussions. Most of all, he wanted them to take him with them, to not leave him here, alone. A ripple of fear and overwhelming sadness sizzled across his chest, and Gibbs picked up immediately on the strain that entered Tony's face, on the increase of his shallow breathing.

"Yeah, I think it's about that time," Gibbs told the rest. One by one, they shook Tony's hand, kissed his cheek, promised they'd be back soon. Much too quickly for Tony, they were gone. Dorothy strode in, turned down his bed, and she and Gibbs helped Tony to his feet. Each took hold of one of Tony's forearms, and Gibbs grabbed Tony's IV. In the silence of the newly empty room, Dorothy and Gibbs propelled a highly fatigued DiNozzo to his bed. Barely able to keep his eyes open, Tony allowed them to remove the extra gown, to guide him into bed, cover him, all done in relative silence. Dorothy scrambled to take Tony's vitals before he fell asleep, and Gibbs sat down in the chair Tony had vacated.

"Hey, Boss," came the weak, breathy voice, and Jethro joined Tony at his bedside.

"You need to catch some shut-eye, DiNozzo."

Tony held Gibbs focus the best he could while drugs coursed through his veins. "I really…appreciate you coming. That was…"

"Don't say sweet, DiNozzo," Gibbs warned, cocking his head to the side to meet Tony's heavy-lidded eyes, and Tony tried to laugh.

"Got it, Boss." Tony fought sleep. There was one more thing he needed Gibbs to know, needed to say. He swallowed hard, lifted his chin, and said, "I'm not that…young…anymore."

Gibbs drew up one corner of his mouth, nodded, and said, "But you're still stubborn. Go to sleep."

Tony capitulated, and Gibbs watched over him until he was sure the man wouldn't wake up. One last look, searching Tony's face for obvious signs of further illness—too many to mention. He looked beyond the pale skin, the scruff of a beard, the abrasions on his cheek from tape having been removed. To the IV adhered to his forearm, the clump of hospital gown held tight in his fist, the other hand pressed against his chest.

There it was. Even in sleep, Tony was telling Gibbs all he needed to know, that he was struggling. That he was over his head. That he was afraid.

Jethro Gibbs knew he couldn't do anything about a diseased heart that wanted to betray the man, but he could do something about drawing out that heart of a lion he knew was in DiNozzo. He'd seen it time and time again throughout the years. Yes, Gibbs decided, he would make it his personal mission that Anthony DiNozzo never forgot the stubborn, resilient, cocky man he was. After all, he would need to call upon it in order to meet this enemy, growling and enormous, and tell it to go straight to hell.

*****


	8. Chapter 8

Okay! Happy New Year. It's a new semester, and we're starting it in a grand way—with two, possibly four snow days. My "Snow Day Dance" remains a very powerful force of nature.

So here you go. Thank you once again to all the wonderful notes of encouragement and praise.

All the best,

Pough

*****

"All I'm saying is it was weird," Tim groused, dumping his heavy bag on the floor of Abby's lab.

"It wasn't weird. It was incredible. I mean, think about it," Abby said, spinning around her lab, flipping switches, punching on monitors, "three days ago, he was still barely conscious. Yesterday, he was…Tony. Well, Tony-light, but still Tony."

Tim pulled USB cords, three matte-gray external hard drives, and a bag of Twizzlers from his bag. Abby frowned, and said, "I thought you told me you were kicking the Twizzler habit."

"I did," he said, sitting heavily in front of a computer. "And then, Tony got sick."

"Timothy McGee," she said, facing him, her hands pressed to her hips, "I am so disappointed. Do not use Tony's illness to further your addiction. If you're jonesing for licorice, that's your problem. I won't let you blame it on Tony."

"Fine," he said, ripping open the bag, "it has nothing to do with Tony! I just wanted some. I miss how it splits down the middle, how it's kind of oily, but it never gets on my fingers. But most off all, I miss the smell." He buried his nose deep inside the bag and inhaled that supple, red aroma, thick with the high tones of artificial strawberries. "Totally worth it."

"Spoken like a true addict, McGee," she said spinning away from Tim.

Tim paired up the external hard drive marked "number one" to the agency computer and booted it up. "Tell you what, you give up Caf-Pow, and I'll give up Twizzlers."

"Don't make me go all Jeff VanVonderen on you," she said, coyly eyeing him over her shoulder.

"So here's what I'm thinking," he said, ignoring her. "When you first started investigating the hard drive, you thought you were picking up on the whiskers of a Smurf Attack."

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that," she said, pulling on her lab coat. "Smurfs are so 1990s. It's gotta be something more current."

"Like a Botnet," Tim offered.

"Right, or a Ping of Death," Abby added.

"Okay, then we start searching for zombies."

"Or Pings."

"Okay, either way, we're in the desert." Tim stared at the monitor and blindly stripped another plasticine braid from the pack.

"Then, we need to stop thinking about the desert and start thinking about the first steps—and this, like, goes for your weird licorice craving, your hospital-room phobia—"

"I don't have a hospital-room phobia."

"Okay, your sick-person phobia, as well as for the approach that we need to take in order to sort through all this data." Abby closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and let the air spill out slowly over rounded lips. She twisted her arms in front of her, palms facing each other, and said, "We need to be conducive to mindfulness and wisdom, and the only way we can is to practice the _Vinaya_."

"I think you're doing garudasana," Tim told her, "without the leg cross…ing thing."

Abby disentangled her arms, grinned and said, "Well, McGee, you are a mystery."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Yes, I've taken yoga," he said. "I had a back problem a couple years back, and yoga really helped. But," he said, feeling the need to clarify a minor point for Abby, "yoga is more closely aligned with the Hindu religion, whereas Vinaya, if I'm not mistaken, is part of the Buddhist religion."

"Technically, my little esoteric friend," Abby said, not to be outdone by McGee, "yoga is not aligned with any religion. Therefore, I could—"

"That's it," McGee said, looking through Abby, through the wall behind her, and into some memory embedded in his mind. "Last April, the Dalai Lama's computer was infected with a Botnet."

"Talk about really bad karma. Who would infect the Dalai Lama?"

"That's not important," Tim said, dismissing her.

"Tiiiiim!"

"Okay, yes, it's very…shocking, but my point isn't _who_ did it, but _how_ it was done," he said. Tim's fingers flew over the keyboard; his eyes scanned the monitor screen. "The Canadian authorities figured out that one of his foundation workers opened up an email, an innocuous email, one that had been around the office a couple different times."

"I'm totally in your lane, McSpeedy. Move over," Abby said, sidling in next to Tim. "So, if we can find one of those chain emails that has made the circuit a few times, and then set our protocols for the one that was forwarded from Justin's computer—"

"Then we're not much further along," Tim said, discouraged. He pushed back from the counter, the Twizzlers bag in his lap.

"Yeah, but," Abby began, hoping to catch her friend before he fell into that dark hole, "it's a start. And it shouldn't take long. The kids are all warmed up, and I can feel the magic just pulsing from their servers."

"He calls me Tim," McGee said, scraping at the top of one stick of licorice.

Abby looked around her lab, her inner gears having been down shifted from fifth to reverse. "The Dalai Lama?"

"Tony," he said. "Ever since he collapsed on the ground, he's called me…Tim."

"Well, that's kind of your name, McGee," Abby grimaced.

"Yeah, I know, but…but he doesn't call me Tim," he tried to explain, hoping to bring her up to speed on his personal suffering, minor and inconsequential as it might be. "He calls me Probie, or McGeek…"

"Elf Lord, Plucky," Abby added, counting off on her fingers as she went, "McNerd, McGoo, Probie Pan, McGoogle, McGiggle—"

"Thank you for making my point," Tim said.

"Oh, and my personal favorite, 'Probie Wan Kenobi,'" she said.

"But, not Tim," he told her, trying to make her understand. "Remember when Gibbs was too nice to everyone, and it freaked us out? This…Tony calling me Tim…It kind of freaks me out."

The smile on her lips faded, and she said, "Oh. I see what you're saying." Abby considered the ramifications of this.

"So, yeah, I'm uncomfortable," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, "but I'm not sure I'm the only one."

Abby took in his countenance, sad and fatigued, his usual break-neck speed mind having been derailed, limping along. She stepped between his knees, locked eyes with him, and said, "I think I need a Twizzler." Tim offered her the bag, and Abby peeled away two braids. She stuck one between her lips and one in Tim's mouth. They chewed in silence, considering their sick friend, their case, and the fact that Twizzlers hardly touched the sorrow.

But it was something.

*****

Tony didn't even know he knew the poem "Solomon Grundy"—part of the boredom he was feeling cooped up in the step-down ward with only his spirometer, a TV, and the ever-present nurses who waded in and out, taking vital signs, bringing in trays of soft foods, taking out trays of half-eaten food. But this latest locale, the cardiac catheter lab with its absolute lack of personality, warmth or nuance, took his ennui to all new levels. And so his mind wandered into long-packed away memories and knowledge. He was surprised he could name most of the state capitals, or at least could come up with a major city that probably should have been named the capital. He listed all the Tracy and Hepburn movies, from least favorite to favorite. Somewhere in hour three, a bubble of a poem surfaced. The problem with the bubble, however, was that it only contained half the poem.

"'Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday, Christened on Tuesday, Married on Wednesday, Took ill on Thursday,'" he said to the anonymity of room, having been ordered complete bed rest for the next four hours. "So far, Solomon and I are living the life. Except the whole married part. Maybe Solomon should have connected the fact that he's recently married with the fact that he's also suddenly ill. I mean, come on, Solo-man. Check your porridge, brother."

His knees ached after having been immobile for so many hours. However, he wasn't supposed to move, something about needing a baseline of his heart's resting activity. Which was fine because he had so spectacularly failed his treadmill stress test.

He had thought it would be, if not a breeze, a walk in the park, as it were. After all, he had been a college athlete, and even after all these years, point guards don't just lose their wind.

One heart attack and a cardiomyopathic virus later, and Tony entered into a very different mindset.

"Wow," he had said, grasping hold of the treadmill's handles, his vision becoming gray, as if trying to see through a screen, "I'm really out of shape."

"Mr. DiNozzo, are you experiencing any other symptoms?" the nurse had asked, checking the monitors for Tony's heart rate, pulse and blood pressure.

"Okay, so, why don't you…go ahead and…give me those…symptoms again," he said, suddenly carrying the exaggerated weight of each line hooked to every lead on his body.

The nurse recorded the heart rate monitor readings and blood oxygen levels at the two minute mark into the test, and said, "Difficulty breathing, tightness in the chest, lightheadedness…"

"Yes," he managed to say, and the world slipped away.

When he woke up, he was in the cath lab, an oxygen cannula draped under this nose. He was told that although the first half of the test hadn't lasted as long as they would have liked, it still gleaned appreciable data. This second half, taking a radiographic picture of his heart at rest, was still a viable test.

So he waited, and made up his own verses to the childhood poem. "'Anthony DiNozzo, echocardiogram on Monday, chest X-ray on Tuesday, MRI on Wednesday, stress test on Thursday," he said, sighing. "The cadence is all wrong."

He scratched a cheek, grateful that Gibbs had brought his electric razor from home. By the fifth day of not shaving, his skin had begun to itch in a completely annoying way. Here it was on Thursday, and he needed another shave.

"Does anybody know what time it is?" Tony called out, and waited for a reply. When none was forthcoming, he continued in song, "Does anybody really care?..."

He couldn't remember the rest of the song, either.

Did his lack of memory signify another symptom of his cardiomyopathy? Had he always been that forgetful? He'd have to ask Ziva. She'd tell him, in no uncertain terms, if he was losing his mind. She was always honest with him, unflinchingly so.

He could use some honesty, he thought. None of his doctors or nurses would be straight with him, tip-toeing around the truth. He could just feel it. They'd come about eighty-percent of the way to the point and then back away. Whether it was from a legal standpoint or being overly cautious of making the wrong diagnosis, Tony did not enjoy being on tenterhooks, never had. Maybe, he mused, he hadn't been asking the right questions, although "What the hell is going on with me?" seemed fairly straightforward to Tony.

"Maybe I'm not asking them a soup question," he said, questioning the overhead lights. "'That's not exactly a soup question, is it?"" he continued, speaking out of the corner of his mouth in a thick, middle-aged Scottish accent. "'The object of a question is to obtain information that matters only to us. You were wondering why your soup doesn't firm up? Probably because your mother was brought up in a house that never wasted milk in soup. That question was a good one, in contrast to, "Do I ever go outside?" which fails to meet the criteria of obtaining information that matters to you.'" He stopped, swallowed and realized how thirsty he was. "'Further, farther…'" he whispered.

Tony wove his fingers over his stomach, tapped his thumbs, and began again. "'Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday, christened on Tuesday, Married on Wednesday, Took ill on Thursday." Then the rest of the bubble surfaced, and it was filled with acid. "'Grew worse on Friday, Dead on Saturday…' What day is this?" he wondered, the words to the silly poem having sent ice through his veins. Had it always been this cold in the lab? He began to shake. Years of fieldwork told him that nerves could keep you sharp, or they could make your mind betray you. He had a whole staff of doctors and nurses who were sharp on his behalf. Tony needed to keep his mind from fragmenting.

"Guess I won't get married," he said, laughing, but the IV pole didn't get the joke. And then it didn't seem all that funny to Tony. "I never got married. I never did a lot of things. Why didn't I do all those things?" he questioned, but there were no answers, only more silence, cold and beige.

"God," he whispered, his hands trembling, "I hope I make it to Saturday."

*****

Hour after hour, Ziva and Abby sat in front of the screens, watching tourists and hikers come and go from the Dismal Swamp, their jutting movement filling the screen. Before going on sick leave, Tony and Ziva had created a timeline of what dates they needed to scour—three days before Justin's disappearance and up until the time the first body part was found. With Tony gone, the onus was on Ziva to search through the days of video. Abby, feeling the pressure placed on Ziva, volunteered to help out. With a fresh Caf-Pow and a cup of strong coffee, the two women hunkered down to take on the Herculean task. In five hours, they had finished two days. Some of the people on the tape walked, others stopped to tie shoes. Children usually ran. People carried in backpacks, camera packs, purses, and diaper bags. If the toting person seemed at all suspicious, they'd make a note of it and check to see what that same person was carrying on the way out. In order to preserve their sanity, Ziva and Abby would occasionally stop the tape and try to guess the life story of the person frozen in digital pixels. However, nothing remarkable passed through the camera's lens, just an assortment of clothing, usually dark, earth tones. The Swamp, after all, was a maze of nature trails, and not the type of surrounding you might wear expensive clothes to.

So when a man wearing a red track suit jacket with Chinese symbols embroidered on the back walked across the screen carrying a shoulder satchel that caused him to walk askew, Ziva made note of him and went on to the next person. Seventy-eight minutes into the time signature, the same man walked out of the Swamp, muddied, disheveled and missing his bag. The women shared a look, wondering if they were on to something.

"Can you get a close-up, Abby?" Ziva asked, engaged by the lead, faint as it may be.

Abby readied her fingers over her keyboard, and when the man looked up after having lit a cigarette, she created a screen capture. "Done."

"Do we have the tapes of the parking lot?" Ziva asked, skimming the list of files sent by the Dismal Swamp. "Oh, yes. Here it is." She clicked on the file and the made note of the time stamp. Ziva fast-forwarded through the tape until she reached the approximate time when the man may have entered the parking lot.

"Now I know that jacket!" Abby cried out, pointing at the screen. "That's an official 2008 Team China track team jacket from the Beijing Olympics." Ziva questioned her with a look, and Abby went on. "See, in any other country, the athletes get to go home with their kits, or…uniforms. But in communist China, the athletes had to relinquish their Olympic gear, which most of them were happy to do just to get rid of their opening ceremony's outfit—seriously ugly. The blogs were merciless about the Chinese ketchup and scrambled eggs suits. Personally, I thought they looked like prototypes for some corporate McDonald's presentation. I mean, those outfits were enough for me to—"

"Abby," Ziva interjected. "Focus, please."

"Oh, right. Okay, so this jacket," she said, tapping the screen, "was one warn by the track team members, and, if you read your blogs, you'd know that there was a big stink in Beijing when, a couple weeks after the Olympics, certain kids began to show up at clubs wearing their new Olympic swag."

Unable to make any connection between a headless torso and the 400-meter dash, Ziva asked, "Stolen Olympic uniforms?"

"Not stolen. Gifted. Or, given. Or…well, you know what I'm trying to say. But it wasn't the jacket, although they are pretty sick," she said. "It's the kids who showed up _in_ the jackets." Abby paused, waiting for Ziva to put two and two together. Unfortunately, Ziva was not doing the math. "High-ranking officials' kids! Thanks to their party-line daddies, there was a select group of spoiled Chinese kids running around with the athletes' clothes. And it's not like anybody could go on eBay to pick up one of these suits—believe me, I've tried. The Chinese government had those puppies on lock-down. So, unless this is a knock-off, and it isn't—again, I've checked—then this is one very lucky, very spoiled Chinese kid."

"Who happens to have a driver," Ziva added, showing Abby a still from the parking lot. In it, a red-jacketed young man is seen entering a Town Car, the door held open by a black-suited man.

They let the tape run until the rear end of the Lincoln swung into the camera's view. When the women saw the insignia on the back, they paused the film, and a cold sweat covered their skin.

"Yeah, but," Abby began, her emotions suddenly running very high, "just because a rich Chinese kid went for a walk in the Dismal Swamp, it doesn't connect him to Justin."

"Not, yet, but I have a feeling about this," Ziva said, squinting her eyes, allowing all that she knew, but consciously and subconsciously, to meld in her mind. "And sometimes, that's enough."

"Go with your gut," Gibbs said, and the women swung around to find him entering the lab. "What d'ya got?"

"We're not sure," Ziva said, pivoting to face her monitor. She pointed to the picture of you man leaving the swamp and to the time signature imprinted at the bottom. "Perhaps it is nothing, but this man has entered and exited the Swamp within the parameters of when we believe Chen's body might have been dumped. The man also entered carrying a cumbersome load, and exited empty handed."

"Then, over here," Abby continued, "we caught him getting into a sedan."

"An official Chinese embassy sedan," Ziva said.

"Do we have any connection between Chen and the Chinese embassy?" Gibbs asked, perusing the screen captures.

"No," Ziva told him, "but I believe we should see where this lead takes us."

"I do too," Gibbs said, resting his hand Ziva's shoulder. "That's good work, ladies."

"Thank you, kind sir," Abby said, grinning.

Gibbs phone began to buzz, so he excused himself to the back of the lab. Ziva continued searching the other tapes for added leads, while Abby sent the screen-captured picture of the suspect through the face recognition program.

With a snap, Gibbs closed his phone, attached it to his belt, and said, "Grab your coats. We're going to the hospital." Both women, stunned by his tone and the suddenness of the message, stopped what they were doing and stared at Gibbs. He glared at them, saying, "Ducky just called. We need to get to the hospital. Let's move!"

Rushing to discard her white lab coat and grab her black leather jacket, Abby asked, "Is it Tony?"

But he was gone, and Abby and Ziva were left reeling in his wake.

*****

Ducky drowsed in the staff break room off the CICU ward, a place he hoped he wouldn't have to see again. And yet, here he was for the second time within as many weeks, the dark clouds of Tony's stormy future rumbling in his mind.

He knew Gibbs and the others were in the waiting area, steeped in their own sorrow. When they arrived after the procedure, Ducky had met them in the lounge and told them the outcome, as well as what the doctors had in mind next.

Stunned silent, they were afraid to ask questions. Finally, Ziva found her voice, and asked, "What does it all mean?"

Ducky breathed deep, exhaled, and told her, "It means, my dear, Anthony is running out of options."

In one room, a man, their friend, rested, his heart rendered almost completely useless. In this room, five more broken hearts reached out to one another, weighed down by their utter helplessness.

Even so, they stayed, hoping to be with their friend, if only for a moment, before the day was spent. Ducky slunk back to the break room and reminded himself that the exhaustion of reporting to two different theatres, Tony's bedside and the team's gathering area, was nothing compared to Tony's exhaustion.

And so he hunkered down in the tiny room, next to the microwave oven and the stained coffee machine. It wasn't sleep he was truly after, but a chance to regroup. He was hoping to see Tony once the sedation wore off. However, he'd need to reconcile this new reality before he entered Tony's room.

After the failed stress test and consideration of the results from all their diagnostic tools, the doctors and two silent interns had come to Tony with a course of action they believed would help lessen some of his symptoms. Tony asked if Ducky could be made part of the conversation, reaching out to Ducky via speakerphone. The doctors explained they wanted to go ahead with an Alcohol Septal Ablation, a noninvasive procedure.

"It's a relatively simple thing to do," the younger cardiologist had said, speaking in the direction of the phone, knowing his audience. "We catheterize once again through the groin, guide the wire up into the heart, where we spray a small amount of pure alcohol onto the septum, or the wall between the two ventricles," he had said for Tony's clarity. "The alcohol eats away some of the thickened tissue, allowing the blood to flow more easily in and out of the heart. It's kind of like when the Department of Natural Resources conducts controlled burns in the forest. When it's over, the two chambers should be able to function at a higher level."

As a physician, Ducky thought it sounded fascinating. As Tony's physician, he was guardedly optimistic, questioning the doctors about the methodology, the risks, the other options. Tony did his best to follow along, listening while the doctors in the room and the doctor on the phone line volleyed questions and answers back and forth. Finally, when Ducky asked to speak to Tony alone, and the pair of cardiologists and their interns left the room, Ducky spoke frankly to Tony.

"Anthony," he had said, "you've heard what your doctors are saying. This procedure could significantly improve your day-to-day mobility."

"I'm not mobile, Duck," Tony had said.

"Precisely. I cannot, in good conscience, make this decision for you, but I would suggest that you consider it."

The next morning, Tony was prepped once again for cardiac catheterization, was given a light sedative, and wheeled from the prep area to the lab. Ducky had been given permission to observe the procedure from the control room off the main catheterization staging area.

Standing behind the cardiologist, Ducky had watched the procedure, fascinating in his mind, where a catheter made its way through Tony's femoral vein up to his heart. Immediately, the fluoroscopic images, grainy, filled with shadows and gradations of light, appeared on the staging area's monitors. Ducky, having held innumerable hearts in his own hands, was easily able to read the pictures and the dire situation. No longer pliable, smooth muscle, Tony's heart was occluded, thick, swollen, and with each pass of the balloon catheter and its spray of alcohol, the message became more clear—procedures would not assist this diseased organ, and in fact may damage it further. It was a crushing reality, and Ducky's intimate knowledge of the heart only served to deepen the pain.

"Doctor?" the nurse said, peeking into the break room. "We're ready to move Mr. DiNozzo."

"Thank you," Ducky said, scrubbing a hand over his face. Was it his age, or was it the circumstance? Doesn't one become inured after many years? Life and death, health and illness—inextricably bound from birth to departure, and few people are privy to that relationship like a medical examiner. It simply becomes part of the rhythm of man's time on this earth. But when the rhythm of life is disrupted by a miniscule virus attacking a once strong, vibrant individual, that rhythm becomes cacophonous and disjointed. And so it was the middle ground, the B-section of life's symphony that depleted Ducky. He hoped he wouldn't soon be dissecting Tony's heart, searching through the diseased tissue to find a vestige of the virus. Seeking out the origin to defend an end—it all seemed much too clinical at the moment for Ducky. And exhausting.

When he finally joined them in the hall, Tony's gurney and the nurse pushing it were rounding the corner of his bay. Ducky waited for them to pass completely into the hallway, and then stepped in close to Tony's side.

An oscillating vision of the elderly physician swam in his vision, and Tony voiced, "Hey, Duck."

"Hello, dear boy," Ducky said, offering Tony a warm smile, hoping his eyes did not betray the sadness in his soul. Ducky grabbed hold of the bedrail and assisted the nurse who was navigating the wheeled bed from the recovery room back to Tony's room in the step-down unit, where Dorothy was waiting. She had, of course, been apprised of the procedure's outcome, and gave Ducky a sympathetic hand grasp when they arrived.

After situating Tony, Ducky lowered himself into the corner chair, and thought he might wait for the rest of Tony's sedation to wear off. Dorothy offered the visibly exhausted physician a cup of coffee, and Ducky gladly accepted. While he waited, he worked the problem, attempting to determine if there was any course of action to be taken other than the obvious. There was none, and he knew it without trying to puzzle it out.

When Dorothy breezed back into the room, she carried a cup of coffee for Ducky and a package. Ducky gratefully accepted the steaming coffee, and while he sipped, he watched Dorothy place a can of talcum powder on the bed and then slide a pair of white socks from the box she had been carrying. She pulled the sheet away from Tony's feet, and sprinkled powder over his shins.

"His doctor ordered compression socks," Dorothy told Ducky, massaging Tony's lower legs with powder. "This helps get those buggers on. I know they're important, but goodness, it's a workout."

"My mother wore compression socks, and I was often called into service by her caregivers," Ducky said, putting his coffee down and joining her at the foot of Tony's bed. "Can I be of assistance?"

"Well, I'm not going to turn it down," Dorothy said, handing one sock to the man. They wrestled with the tight hose, working the elasticized cuffs over the heels, past the calves, and stopping just short of the knees. When they were finished, both were breathing heavily.

"Of course, Mother's legs were much less muscular," Ducky said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"DiNozzo's gonna love those," Gibbs said from the doorway. Dorothy giggled, and drew the sheets back over Tony's feet and under the mattress.

"Tell them they're designer, and all will be well," Ducky added.

Gibbs stepped inside the room, and said, "McGee, Ziva and Abs are going down to the cafeteria to get some late lunch. Why don't you join them?"

"Have you had anything?" Ducky asked.

Gibbs leaned over and peered inside his cup. "Is this coffee?"

"I shall spare you the lecture on proper diet," Ducky told him, staring him down with a judgmental eye.

"I appreciate that, Duck." Gibbs stood against the wall, crossed his arms, and said, "Go on."

Ducky sighed, fatigue and worry spilling out in equal portions. "I did so want to be here when he woke. I thought I owed him an explanation of what I observed."

"Do I know everything you know?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes, I suppose you do." Ducky glanced at Tony, sleeping soundly, and at his watch. "Very well, then. I believe I will take you up on your offer." He rose, stretched out his lower back, and said, "Shall I bring you back something?"

"Nah, I'm fine."

"A sandwich it is," Ducky said, his index finger triumphantly splitting the air in his retreat.

Gibbs smiled, took Ducky's seat his coffee, and enjoyed the quiet and a chance to still his mind.

After approximately ten seconds of mind-numbing silence, Gibbs pulled out his notepad and poured over the items written, and while he did, he sipped the weak coffee. They had blocks of information about Justin Chen and his murder. But, the cohesion was lacking, certainly in part due to the time they had spent at Tony's side. Yes, it was important to see his agent through this personal hell, but the job—Justin Chen deserved to have his murderer brought to justice. Gibbs' internal monitor sounded, one he tried to keep on mute as often as possible, and it whispered in his ear that perhaps transferring his thought process to the case rather than the profound concern he held for Tony was just a way to avoid his true pain. At least that's what one over-zealous resident had tried to tell him in a German military hospital during Desert Storm. He scoffed then, too.

Still, there was no reason for Gibbs to deny that he was concerned. He was. But, there was work to be done. How to reconcile the two, then? An investigation, he decided, could be conducted anywhere, and he had every confidence that Tim would see to that. Every hospital had a conference room, and Gibbs certainly had the authority to procure such a room for official NCIS business. After all, many letters home had been written in foxholes.

Done, he thought, flipping shut his notebook and sliding it back into his inner breast pocket.

Now, for a refill on this dyed water they called coffee. Gibbs pushed himself up from the chair, crossed to the door, and noticed, out of the corner of his eyes, that Tony was awake. He put the coffee mug down and stepped up to Tony's side. "How ya doin', DiNozzo?"

"Flat on my ass, Boss," Tony said, his voice quiet, yet clear.

Gibbs glanced at his watch. Ducky had told them all that Tony had to remain completely horizontal for five hours after the procedure, and by Gibbs' watch that had been two hours past. "Shouldn't be too much longer," he said. "You need anything?"

"A file baked into a cake."

Gibbs snickered, knowing full well how unbearable hospital stays could be. Also knowing how to escape a hospital. Tony, on the other hand, was not about to escape anytime soon. "How long you been awake?"

"Oh, I don't know. A while. Just been laying here thinking," Tony said, his vision skimming over the pocked ceiling tiles.

"About anything in particular?"

"Nope. Just random stuff."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes and searched Tony's face. Was it in his eyes, this inkling of complacency, of surrender, undefined and subtle? Or the slight off-set mouth, a practiced insouciance? Gibbs decided, yes, ignorance was bliss, but it was also denial, and he knew Tony couldn't afford to turtle-up. Not now.

"Wanna know how the ablation went?" he asked, less a question than a shot over the bow that it was time to talk.

"Nah," Tony said.

"Okay," Gibbs said, ignoring Tony's refusal, "it didn't go well."

Not a muscle twitched, nor any other outward show of surprise crossed Tony's countenance. He simply said, "I know."

"You heard the doctors talking?"

"Nope. I just know. Besides, my doctors…" Tony filled his lungs with air, and expelled it in one quick burst. "Well, they don't necessarily take the direct approach, Boss. I mean, really, why should they? Either they don't think I'm smart enough to understand what's happening, or I'm not well enough to hear the truth. Or, and here's the kicker, they actually don't know what's going on. So, ya see, it's really the perfect trifecta of the 'sucks-to-be-me' stakes."

Gibbs just let him rant, blinked a few times, and finally said, "You done, DiNozzo?"

"Apparently my doctors think so," Tony added.

Gibbs shrugged, raised his eyebrows, and said, "What do you wanna know?"

Tony stole a quick glance at his boss' expression, understanding in an instant that all would be revealed, if Tony wanted to have it all revealed. Maybe the doctors were right not being so forthright. Maybe he was too ill. Information about his health at this point felt a little like giving a dying man a get-well card with the inscription "Time to think about your will" inside. What did he want to know? Certainly not the truth.

"How's Abby?" Tony asked.

"She's fine, DiNozzo," Gibbs told him, cocking his head, a careful and purposeful level of frustration creeping into his tone. "You need some answers."

"You think I do?" Tony asked, eyeing him sidelong.

"Oh, I don't _think_ you do," Gibbs told him. "I _know_ you do." When Tony didn't come back with a quip or any indication that he was taking the bait, Gibbs pushed on. "You can't get the answers you want unless you know the questions to ask."

Tony wondered for a moment if Gibbs had heard the "soup question" speech from his seclusion in the cath lab.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs said, pestering Tony with an ice-blue stare, "what do you need to know?"

Tony was a student of Gibbs' interrogation tactics. Hell, he'd been on the business end of those tactics more often than he'd like to remember. But this insistence, this pointed resolve to bring Tony to the precipice of his comfort was agonizing, and he knew that the agony would only end when the truth was laid out before him. Tony swallowed hard, pinched down his eyes and pulled his lips tight over clenched teeth, readying himself for what he knew would be excruciating. "Okay, well, fine. I keep listening to the doctors and Ducky talk about my cardiac levels, my kidney functions. Lots of talk about my urine output, and don't get me wrong, I've always been proud of my urine output, especially when faced with the opportunity of defiling a pristine snow bank." Gibbs chuffed at the thought, and Tony went on, "I want someone to be honest with me. What is it, exactly, that my doctors aren't telling me?"

There were times when Tony DiNozzo made Jethro Gibbs extraordinarily proud, and in every instance it came down to the strength and directness in Tony's purpose. Here it was again, in this quiet hospital room, only hours after the man had been wheeled from another procedure. Here was the inner-fortitude Gibbs was attempting to plumb. Tony would need to rely on it from here on out. He nodded, and said, "Plan A, the ablation, didn't go well. Your heart is in worse shape than your doctors thought. From what I understand, from what Ducky's told us, you have one, maybe two more options before plan C."

"Which is?"

"Heart transplant."

All air left Tony's lungs. His mouth slung open, and he blindly stared at Gibbs. "What?"

It almost pained Gibbs to have been that blunt with Tony, but sometimes it's best to strip that band-aid off a wound in one quick rip. "In the next couple days, you'll be evaluated for being placed on the national transplant list. Without it…"

"Plan D," Tony added, knowing the terminus nature of transplantation.

"That's right. Plan D," Gibbs said.

Tony reached his hand to his head, throbbing and pulsing with panic, and anchored his fist in his hair. "Jesus, Boss, that's a whole lot of honesty."

"I'm not one to beat around the bush. You know that."

"I wasn't asking you to beat around the bush," Tony said, a second hand joining the first, "but I didn't think you'd go ahead and beat the bush all to hell. I mean, you gotta ease into these things."

Gibbs shifted his weight from one foot to the next, a skittering of annoyance reaching uncomfortable levels. "You said you wanted me to tell you the truth."

"Well, yeah," Tony said, his heart pumping hard, "but I thought you'd at least, you know, tell me that my arteries looked good."

"I have no ideas what your arteries look like."

"I mean, come on, even my doctor—"

"Do I look like that twelve-year-old you call a doctor, DiNozzo?" Gibbs barked.

"No, Boss," Tony said, quieting himself.

Gibbs lowered his eyes and stared at the top of his shoes, in part to allow Tony time to accept his prognosis, and in part to center himself. "Look, Tony, the truth can't hurt you. Being unprepared can." Gibbs leaned over Tony's bed, one hand braced on his pillow, the other grasping hold of the bedrail. He saw the struggle for control in his agent—the clenched jaw, the trembling lip, the knuckles turned white in fists. "I told you this before and I'll tell you again: This will not be the end of you, DiNozzo. So take a couple minutes to let it sink in, and then let's go forward."

Tony's mind tumbled over itself, a rollicking, frenetic race of thoughts, possibilities, worries, ramifications and outcomes. There was tightness across his chest, a contraction of knotted muscles in his gut. With his hands still tangled in his hair, Tony closed his burning eyes and capitulated to the tsunami of fear that broke over him.

And while he wept, Gibbs prepared for the rebuilding of Anthony DiNozzo's indomitable spirit.

*****

Abby didn't know if the maintenance crew had turned down the temperature for the night, or if were just her nerves that caused her to shake. Either way, she pulled her lab coat tighter around her shoulders and continued staring mindlessly at the computer screen and at the endless flashing photographs running through the face-recognition program.

When Ducky had come to the waiting room, looking haggard and suddenly an old, tired man, he had presented them with a terrible flow-chart of bleak options, the penultimate being a heart transplant.

She'd managed to keep a happy face on when they went to Tony's room, but he was tired, drained, and the visit lasted only a moment. Enough to kiss him goodnight. Enough to see the pain in his eyes.

Abby believed in miracles and the saving grace of human error, leaving chance an open window. But even Abby had to yield to the fact that Tony's options were incredibly and sorrowfully linear. She dabbed her eye with a tissue she'd had balled in her hands for hours. If she could just stare long enough at the images racing across her screen, maybe the whole day would just disappear. The whole month. Maybe she could lose herself in these anonymous pictures of people she would never know, who were probably out there, living healthy lives, while her friend labored for breath.

"It's not fair," she croaked, and when his hand warmed her shoulder, Abby took it for granted that, yes, of course he'd come. "He can't die, Gibbs."

"I know," he said, pulling a stool up next to Abby's. He wrapped a heavy arm across her shoulders and watched the passing images alongside her.

"When I took this job, it was because I love the science. I never thought I'd fall in love with the people," she said, crushing the used tissue in both hands. "There's been too much death in the last couple years. If Tony dies, I swear I'll find some place else to work, some place where people you love don't get shot, or blown up, or poisoned, or... shot, or get sick. Some place where the people you love live long, boring lives, and no terrorists and no bombs and no…teensy, tiny viruses can get to them. I swear I will, Gibbs," she said, turning her red-rimmed, resolute eyes to her friend. Gibbs offered her a sad, tepid smile, and pressed her head down to his shoulder. "I swear I will."

Enfolding her in his arms, muting her husky sobs, Gibbs kissed her wet cheek and rubbed languid circles on her shaking back, absorbing her sorrow.

And he prayed that a few of her tears could be counted for his own.

*****


	9. Chapter 9

For those of you who are well versed in cardiac care, you will probably be chagrined by the fact that I play hard and fast with realistic timelines. There's a reason for that—I am an impatient person with the attention span of a gnat.

Once again, thank your for sticking with this story. By my count, we're at 9 out of 16 chapters, and I think the next chapter is almost finished.

Anyhow, thank Southwest Airlines for the last part of this chapter. They bumped me from my flight home after the Rock and Roll Half Marathon in Phoenix this weekend, and I was able to get a bunch of writing in! Any of you from Phoenix—you put on a great race!!!! I was the one doing cartwheels…

*****

"You have five weeks until the first day of practice. On that day, you will step onto the floor of St. John's Arena, and you will be in the best shape of your life. If not, that will be the only day you step onto the hardwood in an Ohio State University uniform. We do not have time to wait for you to get in shape. You will man up, or you will be dropped. This is Big Ten play, gentlemen. Your five weeks start today. Welcome to Hell."

Tony DiNozzo, eighteen-years-old and crackling with energy, glued his eyes to the Strength and Conditioning assistant coach with reverence and expectations. He relished the opportunity to prove himself, to push his body, and to become the player Coach Ayers said he could be when the man had come to his home during his senior year in high school to recruit the scrappy point guard.

Hell was five weeks of four-hour training sessions, Monday through Friday. It focused on agility, flexibility, strength training and conditioning, although more often than not some players believed it consisted of trying to make the athletes vomit on demand. Not Tony. When others shuffled off the court or away from the weight machines to grab some water, Tony stayed behind to stretch, to jog around the court, to get twenty more push-ups in. On the weekends, when some players relaxed, Tony ran a heart-pounding pace around campus, stopping every two miles to perform calisthenics. By the time pre-seasoning conditioning was over, Tony had lost twenty pounds, had eight-percent body fat, had callous-covered blisters on both feet, both palms, and most of his fingers, and had a hunger in his eyes that propelled him to the top of his recruiting class.

Twenty-odd years later, Tony was once again down twenty pounds, and what he was realizing was pre-seasoning conditioning had nothing on the mind-numbing exhaustion, mental and physical, of being evaluated for a heart transplant. This Hell wasn't sprinting across a high-gloss hardwood floor or groaning through multiple repetitions of bench presses. Hell was a basketful of glass tubes, each full of his blood. Hell was a week's worth of ECGs, Multiple Gated Acquisition tests, patch tests, and urine tests. It was sitting with the transplant coordinator, the transplant cardiothoracic surgeon, The neuropsychologist, the social worker, the dietician, and, to put that cherry on the top of this Hell-sundae, a psychiatrist whose charge was to determine if Tony was "psychologically suitable" for a transplant.

"Anthony," Ducky had told him before the evaluation with the psychiatrist, "this meeting is very important. Now is not the time to give into your natural inclination toward sarcasm and chicanery."

And so Tony answered questions regarding his compliance, his willingness and ability to follow the prescribed and regimented schedule of medication he would be subjected to take for the rest of his life. He answered questions created to assess his willingness to follow a restrictive diet, and to his willingness to exercise. Each time they asked him about his willingness, Tony squashed his first reaction to quote the parable about the will being strong and its relationship to the heart… More questions followed to ascertain his mental acuity and emotional ability to accept change. Tony felt he was giving all the right answers, and did so honestly, without reservation. Then the psychologist began to question him about his social support system.

"My what?" Tony had asked.

"Your support system," the woman repeated, removing her glasses, peering into Tony's suddenly blanched expression. "Your family, your friends, your coworkers. Whom in your life do you call on when you need a hand?"

"Why is that important?" Tony asked.

"Because no transplant patient goes through this alone. It's too overwhelming. Anthony," she had said, leaning over her crossed knees, "who will be here for you, to see you through this? You will need someone, at least one person."

A highly inappropriate laughter crept through him at that point, and he said, "Yeah. Okay. I'm gonna need to get back to you on that one."

Hell was being wheeled into a room of other transplant patients, some pre-operative, others post-operative, all of whom were at varying levels of hope and resilience, of determination and despondency.

Having to discuss the financial responsibilities of a heart transplant and the lifelong prescriptions and evaluations with a rather humorless insurance agent was a special kind of Hell. As was the tutorials on the workings of the human heart, including the four chambers and his "ejection fraction," or EF, a set of initials he quickly realized were all-important in his new world.

Hell was initially meeting with the hospital chaplain who questioned Tony about his belief system, which Tony quickly parlayed into Crash Davis' speech from "Bull Durham." Much to Tony's surprise, the chaplain knew how many beads were on a rosary and how many stitches were on a baseball. So, more purgatory than Hell, he thought.

And although it wasn't quite a surprise finding out that he was a good candidate for heart transplant surgery, due to his age, his health (other than a canned-ham for a heart), and, for reasons that were beyond him, the fact that his dental work was all up-to-date, it most certainly was a kind of paradoxical Hell being told he was an _excellent_ candidate for heart transplant surgery. A 1-B candidate, for that matter, which leap-frogged him over hundreds if not thousands of other candidates.

When he had entered pre-season conditioning two months after his high school graduation, Tony DiNozzo knew, beyond all reasonable reckoning, that he was one of the top young basketball players in America. Five weeks later, he knew he was a member of a team, a good team, a powerful team. In a short period of time, due to his perseverance, his tenacity, and his sure determination, Tony rose to be one of the integral players on the team. As it turned out, Hell, for a young, brash Tony DiNozzo, was just the place to prove his worth.

Nearly two decades past his playing days, and five weeks before he had entered the cardiac care step-down unit, Tony DiNozzo had been a member of a different team, a good team, a powerful team. And then the gates to his newfound Hell opened, full of pain, full of fear, full of anger over his body's betrayal, and he was no longer Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, but cardiac patient Anthony DiNozzo. He was a man with no family, no significant person to care for him. Only a deteriorating heart and a laundry list of medications to show for his time on the planet.

At 3:14 AM, on a somber winter's night, his hands trembling, with only the soft whir of machines and the distant murmur of the staff to perforate the silence, Tony DiNozzo was alone. Hell, it turned out, was wondering what would happen five weeks from now, and if anyone would even notice.

*****

Opening a locked door with a key hardly seemed worth the effort. There was no challenge, no mystery. Ziva David liked the challenge of ascertaining a situation and making a split-second decision about the best course of action. It's what her training had taught her, and it's what made her a splendid assassin, with skills like obsidian.

Simply opening the door of Justin Chen's apartment and walking in felt soft and easy, like the cheese in the spray cans Americans were so fond of.

Even so, Ziva let the door swing open of its own accord, her hand on her gun, her eyes sharp. It had been weeks since Chen's death, but a murderer was still at large. _Walk carefully, look before stepping._

However, in an efficiency apartment, where the only hidden space was the bathroom, securing the room became a much easier process. Ziva padded through the compact, open area to the bathroom, turned the knob and toed the cheap, hollow door. She looked into the mirror and scoped out the small enclosure before stepping inside to probe the corners she could not see. A faint ring around the toilet told her it had not been flushed in weeks, and the bar of soap was beginning to harden on the edges. She paused to feel the air around her—cool, still. No hotspots, no draft, faint as spider webs, which might tell her a person had recently been in the room. Ziva walked into the living area and let the air circulate around her. No, no one had been in the apartment since she and the team had first entered the place. She slid the safety back in place on her gun.

What was it they were missing? His personal computer was offering up nothing. His parents, bereft in their grief and ignorant in their geographic distance, could not provide them with answers. There had to be something in this apartment.

On first inspection, it was exactly what it should be for an unpaid intern in graduate school: one garage-sale-find upholstered chair; bookshelves made from planks of wood and cinder blocks; a half-size refrigerator stocked with margarine and beer; a stovetop that had never been used, but covered with pizza boxes; a single mattress placed on the ground, no frame, no bedsprings; clothes draped over a hardwood chair or stuffed into a milk crate; a cheaply framed poster of a football stadium. It was one step up from a college dorm, without the loud music blaring down the hall.

All of his papers had been sent to the base, but still, there had to be something else they had missed. Every surface had been dusted for prints, the walls and floor had been sprayed with Luminal. Perhaps there was a hidden compartment in the floorboards under the carpeting. Pulling back the edge of the matted-down pile, Ziva found a concrete sub-floor. She let the corner slap back down, brushed off her hands, and stood.

How could a person live and die without having left a discernible impression? Justin Chen had worked in the same office building on base with Ziva, and she had never known he was there. Agents know how to extricate themselves from the situation without leaving a trace, but those same agents would never leave half-empty beer cans on the counter.

Ziva moved to his window, streaked and dappled with water spots, and looked out over the gray day. Was there anyone beyond this window who might wonder where Justin had gone? Was there a store clerk waiting for him at the same time each evening to buy his quart of milk, his loaf of bread? Who would remember Justin Chen?

And so this was Justin's life, a collection of technical manuals, textbooks and pizza cartons. It would take the apartment manager two garbage bags and a pick-up truck to empty the place. After that, Justin Chen would be a file, an amalgamation of computer codes.

What would be left of her life? What stamp had she truly made on this world?

Standing there in a dead man's apartment, contemplating the ephemeral, fickle nature of life, Ziva David began to cry. A silly, ridiculous act, she thought, fisting first one, then a second tear from under her eye. She shook her head, as if she could shame away the tears, as if her steely mind could stare down her crumbling heart. She sniffed, a convulsive hitch in her chest, and drew her entire palm across her wet eyes. Puffs of air occluded the window in front of her, and one word, one image bounded through her sorrow and across her lips.

"Tony," she whispered, coiling her arms across her shaking body. "Tony, you cannot do this to me." Ziva lowered her face, plastered her hand to her mouth to mute the sobs, and prayed to the Almighty that her partner, her friend, would be spared.

*****

"Abby," Tim whined, following behind her with Ziva at his side, "I don't think this is a good idea." He pulled the strap of the bag Abby made him carry higher up on his shoulder.

"You're right, Timmy," Abby threw back, undaunted in her stride through the hospital, "this _isn't_ a good idea. It's a _great_ idea."

Ziva and Tim shot each other incredulous looks. When Abby was focused, she was unstoppable. Definitely time to go along for the ride, no matter how cheesy the plan seemed to Ziva and Tim.

"Look, Tony has had a terrible week. I know if I heard I had to have a heart transplant, I'd be a little wigged out," she said, "especially since I don't have any symptoms of heart failure, but that's not my point." She spun around and faced the two, who stopped short before colliding with Abby. "Tony needs us. He doesn't need our pity, and he doesn't need us to hold his hand. Well, maybe a little handholding. He needs us to be his friend. He needs us to support him through this. He needs," she said, pulling a fake log from her bag, "a campfire."

Before they could rebuff her, Tim and Ziva were being pulled through the door by the force of her enthusiasm alone.

Their bustle of energy was dampened when they entered Tony's room. Sitting, yes, upright and awake, but diminished, too. The usual effusion of energy dammed up. Tethered to his chair, to the room by a nasal cannula and ribbon of leads now ever-present, Tony stared out the window, his chin cupped in his palm.

"Hey, Tony," Abby said, stepping lightly to his side, afraid to startle him. She slipped her fingers under his free hand and kissed his forehead. Tony squeezed her hand and tried to smile, but the burden of illness and its omnipresent weight muted his spirit. "How are you today?" she asked.

"You know, I'm…I'm okay," he told her, wanting to tell her so much more. "Kind of a tough day."

Abby laid her soft hand against his cheek. Tony closed his eyes and pretended the touch didn't touch something hurting, something keening with need inside him.

"Hello, Tony," Ziva said from the door. Abby stepped back, and Tony turned his attention to the entrance of the room. Why it surprised him that Tim and Ziva were also in attendance, he didn't know.

"Oh, hey," he said. "What are you guys doing here?"

Tim glanced at the two women, who glanced back, so he said, "Well, Abby thought you could use some company…"

"And we agreed with her," Ziva added.

"So we came." Tim pried the heavy bag from his shoulder and dropped it to the ground.

"Careful with that, McGee!" Ziva warned, procuring its contents.

Tim mumbled, "You carry it, then."

"Careful, Timothy," she warned, hunkering down on the floor at Tony's feet. From the heavy, canvas bag, she pulled a Halloween prop—a black cauldron the size of a flowerpot, with orange, red and yellow nylon flames attached to its surface. Abby flipped a switch, the shaped "cinders" began to glow, and a fan set the flames flickering. She circled the pot with her faux logs, and motioned for Ziva and Tim to join her on the floor. The two rolled their eyes, and, much to their chagrin, sat down, forming a ring around the fire.

Tony furrowed his brow, and said, "Don't get me wrong, but… What?"

"It's a campfire," Abby told him, her arms wide and inviting. "We're having a campfire."

"Oh, wow. That's really, really… Okay, you realize when we used to have campfire talks," Tony said, closing one eye for emphasis, hoping not to quash her excitement, "there wasn't actually…a campfire."

"We tried to tell her that," Tim said, eyeing Abby.

Ziva straightened her back, straddling the fence of her support for Abby and her great dislike for such ridiculousness. "Abby was of the mind that this would be…fun. For you."

"And it's not like I brought real fire," Abby said.

"Open oxygen," Tony said, tapping his cannula.

Abby pointed directly at him, and said, "Exactly!"

"Believe it or not, there's actually a method to…Abby's madness," Tim said, needing to bring some reality, surreal as that may be sitting around a faux campfire, on linoleum tile, in the middle of a hospital. "We know you can't come to the office, so we…"

"Decided to bring the office to you," Ziva finished.

Tony blinked, and thought he remembered Dorothy talking about Gibbs having done the same. "Didn't I hear something about the boss already doing that?"

The three on the floor shared a look, each knowing the answer to that question, and each knowing Gibbs didn't want Tony to know the extraordinary measures and plans that had been created in the event the team needed to spend prolonged hours in the hospital with him. That Dorothy, Tony's nurse, had caught wind of it meant that Gibbs had had to step on a few toes to get the job done. Still, he wouldn't want Tony to think his illness had become something they needed to work around, so they tweaked their words.

"Gibbs had me check on the feasibility of bringing in a secure computer line, that's all," Tim said, uncomfortable with the blurred distinction between half-truths and outright obfuscation. But it seemed to satisfy Tony's curiosity. Time to change the subject… "So, Tony…" And that was all he could come up with.

"How's the case?" Tony asked, which surprised them all.

"It's, um, going," Ziva began, measuring her words, "slowly. We seem to be finding more dots than connections."

"We thought we had a Smurf Attack at one point," Tim said, "but Abby and I think it's more likely a botnet."

"Or a Ping of Death," Abby added.

Tim turned to her, and asked, "Do you really think it's a ping, or do you kind of just like saying it?"

"Yes."

Tony, seemingly oblivious to it all, let his attention wander back to the window. "The day we went to his apartment, I was, uh, sick," he said, and the even quality of his voice almost passed over them without notice. One by one, their ears picked up on his somber tone and his intent. "I couldn't breathe; I couldn't think. Swear to God I don't remember driving to work most of those days. Now that I think about it, I probably shouldn't have driven at all."

Ziva had thought hearing his confession of illness would be a relief, a vindication of sorts. Somehow, it deepened her distress. "You mustn't blame—"

"I can hardly remember the day we went to the Dismal Swamp." Outside his window, on the other side of the double-paned glass, the muted sounds of the city reminded him yet again of the separation between his life and everyone else. "I really only remember the day we were in his apartment. God, how much more did I miss?"

Abby's hand darted to Tim's. She had wanted this to be redemptive, uplifting. She needed it to be, and Tim sensed it. "Uh, Tony—"

"It's just," Tony began, his eyes screwed shut in concentration, "there was something about that place that… I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but it's always bothered me. I can still see it."

"What is it? What can you see?" Tim asked.

With his eyes closed, Tony pointed to what would be Justin Chen's living room wall, if he were standing in the apartment. "There was a photo on his wall. A picture of the Big House."

Ziva scowled, and said, "There was no picture of a state penitentiary anywhere in his apartment."

"No, Ziva," Tim explained, remembering the photo, "the Big House is what they call the University of Michigan's football stadium."

"Main Street and Stadium Boulevard, Ann Arbor, Michigan, and right next door, Crisler Arena," Tony voiced, going inside the photo, into memory. His mind tracked around the great brick structure of the stadium and the vast concrete dome of the arena, an enormous block M emblazoned on a steel billboard between the two. "I spent many a cold winter nights on that court. Those were good years for the Buckeyes. Not so much for the Wolverines." He could smell the sweat on the player next to him, feel the percussive sounds from the court vibrating still in his gut, could hear the buzzer for time, the shrill whistle for fouls or substitution, remembered running from the bench, stripping his warm-up and tossing it to the other players, checking in at the official's table, and then sprinting out onto the court to join his team.

How he remembered.

"Tony?"

He could hear, hear it still, shoes squeaking against the hardwood. The coarse, pebbled texture of the basketball, how it rolled from his fingertips, spun into the air, a high arc. The swish of it slipping through the net. Camera flashes peppering the stands.

"Tony?" Abby said again, her hand on his knee. "Hey, you okay?"

Tony opened his eyes, and was momentarily surprised to find he was sitting in a tiny room, quiet, except for those sitting with him and the ambient sounds from the hall. He blinked his eyes and tried to catch up. "Sorry. What?"

Ziva said, "You were talking about this 'Big House.'"

Tony had to trace his thoughts back to pick up the thread again. "Yeah. Right. Well, it's probably nothing, but…" He shifted in his chair, and set his eyes on McGee. "Tim, didn't you say Chen had a tattoo of the University of Illinois on his shoulder?"

Surprised, Tim blinked, and said, "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

"Here's what I'm thinking: What self-respecting member of the Illini has a picture of the Big House on his apartment wall?" asked Tony.

"That's a good point," Tim said.

"Like I said, it's probably nothing," Tony told them.

"I'll check on it first thing in the morning," Ziva said. "What can it hurt, eh?"

"And that's it," Tony said, inhaling slowly, exhaling in one quick gust. "That's all I remember."

"That's okay," Tim said, reassuring his friend. "It's good, actually. We can check it out. 'preciate it, Tony."

"Yes," Ziva added, "very helpful."

Tony let his eyes drift onto the cauldron of fake fire and noticed the flaccid flames. "I think your fire's gone out."

Abby gasped, picked up the plastic set-piece, and said, "Oh, damn! I knew I should have changed the batteries."

"It's okay, Abs," Tony said, smiling. "It was getting warm in here anyhow."

"But, I wanted us to have a campfire," she said, pushing it aside. "Okay, on to plan B, since the fire-thing kind of blew," Abby said, brushing off her hands. "Oh, are we finished talking about the case?" she asked, and all agreed they were. Abby pulled a manila folder from her bag, and opened it up. "I've been doing my own research about your condition, and did you know, just last year a heart-transplant recipient climbed Mount Vinson Massif? That's in Antarctica. I had to look it up. And a couple years ago, another heart-transplant recipient, who, by the way, had the same kind of viral cardiomyopathy as you, climbed the Matterhorn, Mount Fuji _and_ Mount Kilimanjaro," Abby said, a wide, red smile brightening the room. She handed each article to Tony, who let them rest in his lap.

"Are you suggesting I become a sherpa, Abs?" Tony asked, looking down at the pictures of smiling, wind-burned mount climbers.

"No! Unless you've secretly harbored a desire to be one all these years, which I don't think you have. What I'm suggesting is," she said, raising herself to her knees and scooting toward him to rest both hands on his chair, "people have done amazing things after a heart transplant, and you, Anthony DiNozzo, will too. I have every confidence."

"I'm glad you do, Abby," Tony said, trying to smile for her. His eyes fluttered, his lips formed words he wasn't ready to speak. He sighed, and said, "I'm just not there yet."

"I know," she said, holding Tony in her focus. She lifted an article about an Ironman triathlete who had had a heart transplant, placed it alongside her face, and said, "But, that's why you have me. To remind you of how incredible your life has been and will be."

Her kindness, warm and radiating, singed him. Too close. With nowhere to go, with no plausible way to physically escape, Tony hid inside the protection of subterfuge. "At least I got that going for me," he said, paraphrasing Bill Murray, "which is nice."

Ziva eyed him, the carefully constructed though inept smile, the feeble attempt at diversion. She wondered if he knew how unconvincing it was. Was it his bravado that forced him to hide behind platitudes, or was it something else? Fear, perhaps? The same fear that had crept up on her in Justin Chen's apartment? Ziva watched him, and wondered if he realized how clearly his tired eyes broadcast his fatigue. She and Tony had been partners for years, and she knew a thing or two about him, whether he told her or not, and what she knew was he was reacting to being cornered. This unspoken language shouted to her in the way he cocked his shoulder back and away, it was in his tight voice. Sympathy for the man poured over her. She would be just as uncomfortable with the conversation. She _was_ uncomfortable with it. So she rose.

"You look tired," she said, prompting the others that it was, indeed, time to leave. It was about having her partner's back, about protecting him from danger. She brushed off her hands on the seat of her pants. "I will go to Chen's apartment and look for this photograph, and if I find anything, I will get in contact with you."

"Yeah. Good. Thanks," Tony said, only perfunctorily offering her a glimmer of a smile. Abby was still kneeling before him, but Tony was spent. Too tired to even conjure a glib witticism, he simply told her, "I'm just tired, Abs. I appreciate what you told me, I do. I'm just…I'm just…"

"It's okay. I understand." She stood and leaned into him, drawing her arms around him, careful of all the lines and leads. "Am I hurting you?"

Tony reached his hands up and made it as far as her waist before the burn of fatigue set in. "Not at all."

Ziva stepped in alongside, grasped hold of one of Tony's hands, and he caught sight of her over Abby's shoulder. Ziva pulsed Tony's fingers, nodded and gave him a soft smile. Tony winked at her in reply, the unspoken appreciation from one partner to another. He wondered if Abby's hug would last much longer. Tim sensed that the hug was lasting a little too long, and placed a hand on Abby's shoulder. She realized what Tim was telling her, and disengaged her arms.

"I'll come back tomorrow," she told Tony, straightening the oxygen tube she had dislodged from around his ear. "Is this okay?"

Tony nodded. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Abs, why don't you and Ziva go ahead?" Tim said, and when Abby saw his purposeful expression, the set jaw and determined eyes, she nodded and began to gather her things. Knowing the personal torment Tim had been going through since Tony fell ill, she laid a warm hand on his heart. "I'll be down in a minute," Tim said, nodding, thanking her without having to tell her. Abby reached for the rucksack, and Tim handed off all the campfire paraphernalia. Ziva gave Tony one last goodbye and prodded Abby to follow her, which she did.

When the women had left, Tim dug his hands into his pockets, and said, "Um, Ton, I wanted to talk to you."

"Can we make it quick?" Tony asked, visibly becoming more and more tired.

"Yeah." A knot of discomfort twisted in his gut. He didn't know how to begin, so he clenched his teeth, clamped shut his lips, and tried to come up with the right words.

Tony furrowed his brow, watching the man, and said, "You know me, I love a game of charades as much as the next guy, especially if the next guy is Ducky, but I'm kind of gettin' near sleepy-time, Tim."

Pointing at Tony, Tim said, "It's that."

Tony glanced at his body, his fingers settling on the bulge under his skin. "My pacemaker?"

"No," Tim said, stammering. "Look, a long time ago, when I had my first on-the-job kill, I asked you not to rag on me. You told me you wouldn't be you if you didn't, and, you know, I took a lot of comfort in that."

"You want me to make fun of you?" Tony asked, confused.

"Yes!" Tim said, and changed his mind. "No. I mean," he began, but didn't quite know how to explain. And then he thought maybe it wasn't about how he perceived Tony in his present circumstance, but how Tony perceived the world from the point of view only a critically ill patient could. So he asked, "Tony, how ya doin'?"

That stunned Tony, and then it was his turn to be inarticulate. "What…what do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, pulling the extra chair closer to his friend, "are you afraid?"

Tony stared at him, through him. Nonplussed, he blinked and only breathed again when the cannula puffed air into his nose. He wouldn't be caught off-guard like this, so he scowled and said, "I'm fine. Look—"

"Don't do this," Tim said, and in his voice, Tony knew he would not be so easily diverted. "Tony, I'm asking as your friend—how are you?"

"Like I said, I'm fine."

"Are you scared? I'd be afraid."

"Afraid of what?" Tony asked, becoming aggravated with Tim's insistence.

"I don't know. You tell me."

"What do I have to be afraid about?" Tony said, bitterness boiling up inside him. "Sure, I could be afraid that I might die before they find a heart. Of course there's that pesky fear over having my chest cracked open to get a new heart, but other than that…" Tony pressed his head back into the padded chair, and continued. "Or maybe you're asking if I'm afraid that even if I do get a heart, my body will reject it. So, okay, yeah, I might have a few, oh, let's say, annoyances in my life. How about you, McGee?"

"McGee," Tim whispered, smiling. "See, that's what I really wanted to hear."

Tony's eyes flashed, his head coming quickly off the chair. "What are you talking about?"

"I wanted to hear you call me McGee. Or Probie. Or any of those other stupid nicknames you come up with."

"Then why the hell didn't you just ask me to call you that?"

"Because I thought you needed to maybe… I don't know, get pissed off at me," Tim told him. "You know, tap into that famous DiNozzo condescension." Tony glared at the young man, and Tim quirked up one corner of his lip. "Look, Tony, I can't imagine what this is like," Tim said, leaning forward, his eyes squarely on Tony, "but something tells me you're going to need to rely on all that…" He paused before adding a descriptor his father had used, especially when describing Tim's sister Sara. "…all that piss and vinegar to get through this, and I haven't seen much of it since, well, since you got sick."

"A lot of things have changed," Tony said, as much to himself as to Tim. One phrase stuck in his head, about need. There was so much Tony needed, he hardly knew where to start.

"So, I guess I'm asking, Tony, how can I help?" Tim asked.

"You're asking me how you can piss me off for my own benefit?" Tony asked. "Twisted, bro, even for you."

"If it would help, sure," Tim said.

It gnawed at Tony's gut that his team, underlings who he ruled with sarcasm and aggravation, were now bolstering him. He felt so small, so helpless, and he hated it. But a greater portion reminded him of what the social worker had said, that he'd need help. So he went beyond the boundary of his comfort, and reached out to Tim.

"Yeah. Okay. Here's the thing," he said, wrestling with himself to actually speak the words. "I do… need help."

"Great."

"Great?"

"Well, not great, but…I can help. Great."

Tony smoothed out the tight lines across his brow, and said, "They—the social worker and the psychologist—keep talking to me about my 'support system.' Support system…" he said, inoculating the words with sardonic mockery. "But here's the kicker—as soon as they started talking to me about it, I knew who I needed to talk to, and that's you."

His brow plucked in consternation, Tim said, "Why?"

He had grown up in a house where you didn't discuss money or religion. God help you if you actually showed the face value of the currency you were slipping into the collection box. So to discuss this issue with Tim was pure misery for Tony, but important, nonetheless. "It looks like I'm going to be here a lot longer than I thought," Tony told him, stopping to catch his breath, the brief spike in energy having passed. "In fact, I'll be here until they find a heart, and then after the transplant. I'm looking at…No one knows how long. So, I need to ask you a favor."

"Anything, Tony."

"I may call you a lot of nicknames, and, yes, I rag on you, and it may be piss and…and what?"

"Vinegar."

"Okay. Makes absolutely no sense, but I buy it. Anyhow, I may be all those things, but," Tony said, looking unswervingly at his friend, "I trust you, Tim, and I want to know if you'll take care of my finances."

Tim's eyebrows shot up high on his forehead and his mouth slung open. "Your…what?"

It was Tony's turn to be confused. "My books. You know, pay my bills, my rent, that sort of things. I mean, like, not with your money. With my money. What did you think?"

Tim's head rolled on his shoulders and his hands dropped into his lap. "Gees, Tony, I thought you were going to ask me to donate an organ or something."

"The only one I need, you kind of need, too, Tim," Tony reminded him. "So, what do you think? Can you do that for me?"

"Yeah," Tim said, still reeling from the possibilities.

"You're sure?"

"What?" Tim asked. "Oh, sure. No, I can totally do that for you. In fact, I'd be honored to do that for you, Tony."

"Well, good," Tony said, closing his eyes again, finding sleep not far away. "I'll call my landlady, have her give you a key to the apartment, and then I'll call my lawyer and give you power of attorney."

"I'll need all your passwords," Tim said, nodding, fully on board.

"My passwords? For what?" Tony asked, one eye cracked open.

"You know, for your computer and account pa... Tony, tell me you don't write out checks to…" Tim stared at his friend, incredulous and disbelieving that there were still people like him on the planet. "You still use snail-mail to pay your bills?"

"And put a fellow government employee out of work?" Tony said, beginning to feel the aching weariness in his body. "Who's the heartless one know, McSnob?"

The joy that nickname brought Tim was immeasurable, and he grinned. "I'll take care of everything."

"Thanks."

"You look like crap," he told Tony, rising from the seat and storing it in the corner. "Why don't you get some sleep?"

Tony didn't have the energy to argue. He simply nodded and anchored his hands on the chair arms. Tim watched him, and quickly realized that Tony couldn't do it alone. He stepped in next to Tony's chair, fumbled for a moment, and then lifted his friend from the lounger. And when he did, Tim felt the immense atrophy of muscle and the sudden loss of weight. He forced himself to be calm, to not let Tony know how shocking it was to feel the jutting ribs and the slack skin.

So he held Tony up, one arm across his back, one hand on his arm, making sure the IV pole shuffled across the floor with them. He shimmied Tony next to his bed and eased him back on the flat mattress, a large, warm hand supporting Tony's head. No words were exchanged, but Tim had time to understand how sick Tony must be to allow such contact. Tim scooped up his friend's legs and swung them onto the bed, covered him up, and said, "What else do…"

But Tony was asleep, his breaths shallow over purple-tinged lips.

Tim patted Tony's shoulder, grabbed his portion of the campfire equipment, and tiptoed out of the room. Once outside, he pressed into the wall, and when his suddenly weak legs gave way, Tim slid to the floor, undone by the severity of it all.

*****

"Morning, Gibbs," Ziva said, rounding the corner of her desk. "Tim."

"Morning, Ziva," Tim answered from his desk.

Gibbs sipped from his ubiquitous cup of coffee, simply glancing at Ziva while she removed her coat and took her seat. He put down the white paper cup, and said, "So where are we?"

"This morning, after I make my calls, I will go back to Chen's apartment," Ziva said, folding her hands on her desk. "Tony seems to think the fact that a picture of a competitor's sporting arena is in Justin's apartment may be important."

"And what do you think?" Gibbs asked.

"I think I'm willing to follow any lead, no matter how insignificant," she said.

"Do you think that's the best use of our time, Agent David?"

Ziva stared down Gibbs, her stance being just as intractable as his. "Yes, I do, Agent Gibbs."

He never took his eyes off her, picked up his coffee, brought it to his lips, and said, "Okay, then. McGee?"

"Yeah, Boss."

"Your turn."

Tim stared blankly at him and smoothed down his tie. "Well, I have a call in to the Chinese Embassy to see if they've ever heard of Justin Chen. I'm also continuing to search through Justin's hard drive and his email accounts."

"Then, let's—"

"Boss?" Tim interrupted.

"McGee?"

"We need to close this case," Tim said, earnestness the girding of his words. "I mean, I think it's important that we close this as quickly as possible."

"Well, yeah, McGee," Gibbs said, frowning, "that's generally our goal for all cases."

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

It was something that had kept Tim awake most the night, the distraction in Tony's eyes, some of it having to do with this case and his feelings of inadequacy concerning it. "I just think if we could close this case, Tony wouldn't have to worry about it."

Deep in Gibbs' gut, there was a shift, a slight sensation that something had been dislodged, like micro-tectonic plates slipping against each other. "Then maybe we need to get to work," Gibbs said, harnessing his gun and clipping on his cell phone. "Can you make your calls from the road, Ziva?"

Ziva considered his question, nodded, and said, "Yes."

"Then let's go," he said.

She stood, gathered her things, and followed Gibbs out of the office.

Both Gibbs and Ziva were comfortable with protracted silence, which was fortuitous—each felt the need to think. About the case, but mostly about their friend and colleague. In the darkness of their spirit, where lingers the uncontrolled, a stark cold possibility loomed—death.

"We need to close this case," McGee had said, and the subtle desperation in it scraped against the base of Gibbs' consciousness. Failure was never an option, but sometimes life didn't offer options. There was no other choice, then, but acceptance.

And so they drove in silence, neither wanting nor needing to talk. Gibbs steered with one hand, scratched a relentless line across his jaw with the other.

They entered Justin's building and apartment in much the same way—silent, focused, never questioning the other. Ziva asked if she could do the honors of either proving Tony right or proving it was another dead end. Gibbs motioned toward the picture, and she stepped toward it, pulling two latex gloves from her pocket. She grasped hold of the cheap, black frame and slid it off its hook.

"Well?" Gibbs said, more an insinuation than question.

Ziva hefted the frame up and down. "By the weight of it, nothing seems out of the ordinary." She turned it over and found the back covered with framing paper, glued carefully to each edge. "Seems fine," she said, angling the frame to look for unusual wear.

"No it doesn't," Gibbs said, pulling his knife from his pocket. "This is too cheap a frame to be finished so neatly." He flipped open the blade, and Ziva held the frame steady. Stabbing the end of the blade into the paper near one side, Gibbs followed along three edges until the paper was free. Peeling back the loosened paper, their eyes were met with typical corrugated cardboard. Then, in the bottom corner, taped flush with the edge, they found a flash drive. Ziva and Gibbs shared a brief, incredulous look. Gibbs removed the small, plastic memory stick, held it in his hands, and said, "You know what this is?"

Ziva frowned, wondering if the common piece of technology were some cultural reference that she was misunderstanding. "It is a thumb drive, yes?"

"Yeah," he said, a coy smile on his lips, "besides that."

"No."

"This," he said, tossing it in the air and catching it, "is good old fashioned police work. Nice job, DiNozzo."


	10. Chapter 10

Here's the absolute truth about this chapter: 1) I wrote two-thirds of it in response to Secretchild's "Fine is a Four-Letter Word," and it was because of this great story that I, with Secretchild's blessing, decided to write my story. 2) I also wrote this before we, the viewers, were introduced to canon's Anthony DiNozzo, Sr., I swear to goodness! Ask Secretchild!

Okay, that's enough. Thank you all for sending me such lovely feedback. Take care, and let's all be gentle with each other.

*****

He was dying. He was sure of it.

In the morning, after his breakfast of bland food, with bland liquid, Tony felt strange, which was a remarkable differentiation in his new life when everything, every day was strange. He would later say that he just felt kind of off. He had decided it was a bi-product of a busy day-before that had been filled with more tests, a visit to the cardiopulmonary physical therapist, a late night watching "Lion in Winter," followed by an hour musing over what life would have been like if he had been born Peter O'Toole. When he woke up feeling nauseated and achy, he just thought it was another one of those days. The cardiac rehab therapist had warned him about the "one-on/one-off" phenomenon of CHF. It was a wonky twinge deep in his gut, less physical than disconcerting. His hands were swollen, and even his ankles and feet hurt. If he hadn't known better, he'd have said he had gone out with his fraternity buddies the night before and killed off a case of cheap beer—lethargic, puffy stomach, dull and aching head.

This day was definitely "one-off." Worn-out, feeling queasy, Tony decided to take a nap, telling himself that he was just tired, that he'd feel better in a couple hours.

Until he woke up coughing, hacking, unable to catch his breath. His fingers skittered over the buttons on the bedrail, trying to find the one to elevate his head. And he coughed, feeling like he was at the bottom of a murky sea. Hands began to shake; limbs twitched from the lack of oxygen.

"Dorothy," he tried to call out, but the pressure, the weight on his chest was immense. He struggled to pull in breath, breath that left him in cramping rasps. "Dorothy…"

His stomach roiled, a burn shot through his lungs, and then it was in his throat. Tony pressed himself to the edge of his bed, leaned over the distance he couldn't traverse, and vomited. It seemed like his chest was turned inside out, his stomach, too. A crushing ache, a ripping ache. And still he coughed, and when he did, he felt the back of his mouth fill. Not mucus, but suffocating, all the same. His eyes spiked with forced tears, his skin prickled with sweat, and Tony spat into his hand.

Frothy. Tinged pink. And with each cough, his mouth filled with more. He couldn't stop it any more than he could stop hacking. It terrified him, this alien substance bubbling from his lungs. He spat again, just spat it out of his mouth, splattering his sheets, the front of his gown. "Dorothy…"

Alarms began to sound on his monitors, insistent chirps and warning beeps. Dorothy flew in, snapped off all the alarms, and inserted the stethoscope in her ears. "Okay! Let's find out what's going on," she said, her voice belying the seriousness of her work. She pressed the cool, metal head to his chest, and listened. "Sick to your stomach?" she asked, hearing what she knew she'd find—rales.

"I was."

"I see that."

"Can't breathe," he managed.

"I bet." Like paper being crumpled in his lungs, the sound was unmistakable, and it told the nurse one thing—pulmonary edema, so common in patients in end-stage heart failure. She had thought he had more time. "Why don't we get you fixed up," she told him, smiling, stripping his sheet down and off, palpating his wrists, the blue-ish fingernails, his distended stomach. She took in the swollen ankles, and listened to him cough.

"I tell you what, I'm going to switch you over to a full mask," Dorothy said, pulling the oxygen mask from the basket behind Tony's bed. With quick hands, she pulled the nasal cannula from his face, and cupped the mask over his mouth and nose. "If you need to spit again," she told him, placing an emesis basic next to his face, "just tell me, and I'll help you out." Sliding the elastic band over his head, Dorothy switched over the oxygen source from the cannula to the mask, and hit the call button.

"Yes," came the voice.

"Can I have the attending doc and anesthesiologist come on into room 245?" Dorothy said, slipping a blood-oxygen monitor over Tony's index finger.

"Sure enough," said the distant voice.

"Am…I…dying?" Tony managed, the mask fogging with each quick burst of expelled air.

"Not if I can help it," Dorothy told him. She pulled a few tissues from the box and wiped away the sputum that had dribbled onto his neck, his chest, that he had spat into his hand. "You're full of fluid, and your heart doesn't want to seem to get rid of it." She picked up his wrist, and Tony was grateful for the reassurance, and then realized she was simply taking his pulse. Nonetheless, he was grateful.

"What do we have?"

Dorothy turned her attention to the physician striding into the room and began to report on Tony's condition, and while she did, Tony closed his eyes and sucked in the oxygen, concentrating on trying to move it into any space that would take it. Again, the froth returned, and he wrestled with his fatigue to remove the mask. Dorothy was there to help him, lifting the mask, then the basin, into which he spat again. She dabbed his lips, and offered him a smile before securing the mask back over his face.

Tony was only barely aware of the two physicians working over him, listening to his heart and lungs, reading his monitor outputs. He fisted his hands in his blanket, panted on air that would not come, and hoped that Dorothy had enough sway to keep him from dying.

"Okay, Mr. DiNozzo," said the first physician, "you're not getting enough oxygen."

What Tony wanted to say was, "Take ya all twelve years of med school to come up with that, Doc?" But, his lack of breath precluded any attempt at sarcasm. He merely nodded instead.

"So, we're going to intubate you," the physician said, and turned to the anesthesiologist, who spoke to a nurse just beyond the entrance to bring him a tube tray.

Tony shook his head and squirmed, from pain, from fear. "No. No." The head of his bed began to lower, and Tony's hands grappled to raise it. "No!" A scouring cough raked his body, and his vision grayed.

Dorothy grabbed his hand, leaned close to him, and, brooking no nonsense, said, "Tony, I want you to listen to me. This isn't up for discussion. We're going to give you a bolus of medicine in your IV that will put you right out. I don't want you to be afraid, but I do want you to know what is happening. The paralytic may burn a little going in."

Tony chewed on the thin air, clutched at Dorothy's hand, and wanted to tell them all to stop, just stop. He wasn't ready for any of this. Before he could make any attempt at an objection, his bed was completely flat, and his pillow was taken out from under him. He tore at Dorothy's hand and pulled her toward him.

"Yes, Tony," she said, coming close to him.

Tony swallowed, peered into her eyes, and asked, "How long?"

"How long for what?"

"N…need t…tube."

She smoothed back the hair from his damp forehead. "Until you're able to breathe on your own. Your doctors will make that decision. Ready?" Tony shook his head, but squeezed her hand. "Okay, a little burn when the medicine hits your vein, and then you'll be asleep. I'll be here when you—"

Tony pulled his head up, gripped her hand, and said, "Call…call Duck."

"Doctor Mallard?" Dorothy asked, rubbing his hand. When he nodded, Dorothy assured him she would.

Like red-hot nails being jabbed under his skin, the Propofol entered Tony's bloodstream.

And when he woke up again, some two hours later, Ducky's kind, sympathetic eyes were upon him, and a plastic tube was snaked down his throat and taped to his cheek. It was uncomfortable, humiliating, and scary. Definitely an "off" day.

At least he could breathe.

*****

Ducky had called earlier in the afternoon, telling the team that Tony had taken a turn for the worse, and Gibbs had broken any numbers of traffic laws getting to the hospital. Once there, he was met first by Dorothy who said Tony was still unconscious and that Ducky was with him.

"Because of the situation, Jethro," she had said, touching his arm, "I can't have his room crowded with visitors."

"That bad, Dorothy?" Gibbs asked.

Dorothy's smile didn't quite make it to her eyes. "I'll tell Doctor Mallard you're here."

Alone again, with only his festering thoughts for a partner, Gibbs had waited out the time. He took calls from Ziva, from Tim, three from Abby, and to Tim and Abby he was unable to report anything more than, "He's still asleep." Ziva asked about Tony in only the most perfunctory way, but then told Gibbs that a head had been discovered in the Dismal Swamp, and that she would like to go out there alone. Gibbs gave her his permission, not that she needed it, and continued his wait.

"Ah, Jethro," the older man had said, bracing himself against the top of a chair, "we meet again in this…unfortunately appointed room."

"How's he doin'?" Gibbs asked, motioning for Ducky to join him in the gathering of chairs, which he did.

With one heavy exhalation, Ducky said, "The damnedest part of this all, I'm sure you'll agree, is this will amount to a stroke of luck."

"I can't agree with any of it, Duck, if I don't know what's going on," Gibbs reminded him.

"Well, of course," Ducky said. He spooled through his thoughts, trying to place the most positive spin on the whole situation, but he was tired. Looking at his friend, at the deep lines around Jethro's eyes, the ever-present ridge between his brow, Ducky knew he wasn't the only one suffering, and so he got on with it, as he knew Gibbs would expect. "Anthony presented today with acute pulmonary edema, or a gathering of fluid in his system, specifically in and around his lungs and heart. Because his heart can no longer pump efficiently, that fluid is collecting in his tissue. This, of course, presents a wide range of issues, but the bottom line is he simply cannot wait for a new heart."

"What the hell are you trying to tell me, Duck?" Gibbs demanded, his voice rough with indignation.

"What I'm trying to tell you, Jethro, is the great paradox of the situation," Ducky told him, clasping his palms together. "You see, because he is so sick, Tony is going to be moved up the transplant list, and that's a very good thing. Also, his doctors are scheduling him for surgery early in the morning to insert an LVAD, a device that will do the work of his heart."

Gibbs scowled, and said, "Okay. And?"

"In Tony's diminished state, any surgery is a risk, and this is a major surgery, requiring his chest be opened," Ducky said. He shook his head, and went on. "There was a children's book a number of years ago wherein a child was invited to a party, a most fortunate circumstance. Unfortunately, it was in Paris. Fortunately, he had an airplane. Unfortunately—"

"Unfortunately, I don't give a damn," Gibbs had said.

Ducky nodded, empathizing with his friend's frustration. "My point is, even though this all looks rather dire, the insertion of this device will provide a bridge between now and when he will receive his new heart, and that is fortunate, indeed," Ducky had said. "Unfortunately, it is the last resort before transplant, and if Tony cannot withstand the trauma of the surgery, there is no other option."

Gibbs thought about Ducky's words, words that scalded him. "Does Tony know?"

"Yes. His doctors have informed him of their plans."

"What's he think about it?"

Ducky considered his reply before saying, "I firmly believe our Anthony is simply overwhelmed by the suddenness of this entire illness."

Gibbs focus tracked to the doors leading into the step-down unit. "Yeah. Well, he's not the only one."

"He's resting now, but I'm sure he would like to see you when he awakes."

Gibbs reached out and patted his friend's knee. "Thanks, Duck." Gibbs rose, deciding he simply couldn't sit still any longer. Ducky joined him, and the two old friends contemplated each other. "You look tired," Gibbs finally said. "Why don't you go home?"

"I believe I will," Ducky had said, rubbing the tight cords in his neck.

"Good," was all Gibbs would offer. He found himself aiming for the ward, almost without thought. Ducky, sensing Gibbs wanted to be left alone with his agent, said his goodbyes.

Once inside Tony's room, with the whisper of the ventilator and the ubiquitous chime of monitors, Gibbs found what he was expecting—a sleeping DiNozzo and an empty chair. It was good that Tony was resting. In his estimation, Gibbs thought the man pushed himself too hard, and he had half a mind to call him every evening and order the man to get his rest, just like he was, for all intents and purposes, ordering DiNozzo to survive heart failure.

He was actually _ordering_ Tony to survive heart failure. Not just survive, but to suck it up and stop whining.

The arrogance.

Gibbs hunkered down in the corner of Tony's room, elbows anchored on his knees, fingers twined, a rough thumb nail scraping across his lower lip, and wondered about his own stubborn, solipsistic tendencies. It was his nature to be confident and to inspire confidence in others. It was his training, his life as a Marine to command respect when he gave an order. After all, he was a man who could back up his words with action, who could instill trust in his ability to preserve life or cause death. In those matters of policy, of political unrest, of the just and unjust, infusing those around him with confidence in his ability to carry out and complete a mission was legendary. Mano a mano, no one was more self-confident.

But heart failure wasn't a deployable combat unit; heart failure wasn't a terrorist about to step into a carefully constructed ambush; heart failure wasn't a set of evidence, ready to be sifted through and connected, a puzzle waiting its imminent solution. What heart failure was was an unknown agent, one that didn't follow conventional rules of warfare, and none of Jethro Gibbs' training had prepared him for this battle. It was the unknown that gnawed at him, the complete and utter lack of control that bore into him. And in that fissure in his confidence, in his unreasonable request that Tony simply deal with it, Gibbs found himself battling another nasty opponent—reality.

It was also in this crack in his carefully fortified confidence that a voice began to be heard. It whispered thoughts from the deep recesses of Gibbs' consciousness, from that part of himself he so deliberately tamped down. Moments like this only amplified the voice, making it all but impossible to disallow that one particular facet of his life to reawaken. There was one niggling, one idea that grew in its insistence to be mollified, one buzz of a thought that pestered him, that attached itself to his core. What made it worse was he knew it the right thing to do. But to do it, Gibbs would have to somehow breach the subject with Tony that their plan of walking away from heart failure might not work out. Gibbs wasn't sure he had to stones to take that away from his friend.

"_We need to close this case, for Tony_," McGee had said, the impetus for Gibbs' shift in perception. Two jagged edges deep in his gut were created in the shift, and they rasped against each other, all day, most of the night.

So it was that in this darkening world, when unknown scores of people outside the cramped, dim hospital room ambled on—a continuous, chaotic thread of humanity—Gibbs steeled himself against the highly disconcerting "what if" and forced himself to "go there."

"There" was cold and empty. "There" was out of his control. "There" was a little too easy to see, and it brought Gibbs no small amount of pain to admit it.

His Marine training told him to protect his own. His special ops training told him to prepare for all outcomes, to cover his bases. His NCIS training told him to lead and command confidence in those around you. But, nothing can actually prepare you that your agent, your friend might be… How do you prepare for the fact that your friend might…

You don't. But you don't just accept, either. You sit with him, and you do what you can to make him comfortable. You learn to accept and roll with the new developments. You deal with it. You pretend that Tony's not that close to you, that you don't care that much, that even if they talk about the team being a family, it's really not. You pretend. You separate. You lie to yourself. At least Gibbs had that, so in a way, he supposed, he was prepared.

As it turned out, that's what bothered him the most, that there was someone out there who wasn't prepared, who might be getting a phone call one day about the death of a child, and of all people, Gibbs knew the desolation a call like that could bring. There was no way he could pretend away that type of devastation.

He scraped his knuckles against his knotted forehead and hoped he'd find the right words to let Tony know what needed to be done.

A rustle of noise came from the bed, and Gibbs jumped up to find the young man searching for something on the bedside table. "What do you need?" he asked, trying to figure out what Tony's fingers were reaching for. Tony mimed the action of writing, and Gibbs picked up the pad of paper and pen. He rolled the table over the bed, and placed the pen in Tony's hand, the pad securely on the table. "Have at it."

He watched Tony scribble out some words, and when he tipped his hand and pen to the side, Gibbs picked up the pad. "_When Cameron was in Egypt's land, let my Cameron go_."

Gibbs quirked a smile, immediately recognizing the allusion to one of Tony's favorite movies. One of his, too, if truth be told, under extreme duress. He dropped the pad onto the surface, and, lowering his face to mask the sight of his smile, he said "You're not dying, DiNozzo. You just can't think of anything better to do."

A skittering of pain crossed over Tony's face, and when it passed, he blinked, and reached for the pad again. "_I never pegged you for a Ferris Bueller fan, Boss_."

Gibbs laughed, nodded his head, and asked, "How ya doin, DiNozzo?"

Tony offered a noncommittal shrug of the shoulders, rolled his eyes, and drummed his fingers against his chest.

"Yeah, I thought as much," he said. Gibbs' blue eyes softened, and he smiled at his senior agent. "Tony."

Tony raised his brow and blinked. Air mixed with oxygen, and the mixture filled his lungs, and his lungs rose and fell, so rhythmically, so inorganically.

"What's rule number five?" Gibbs asked, shifting the pad for Tony to write.

Tony looked past Gibbs, through to his memory, hazy from the stress of having been tubed, or having spent so many hours in distress. His eyes shuttered while he gathered the correct answer, and then he wrote, "_Angles?_"

Gibbs nodded, his lips curling up on one side. "That's right, DiNozzo. Always cover your angles."

When the concept clashed against the odd hour to talk shop, Tony understood this to be one of those hard moments. He locked eyes with Gibbs, and when he saw the deep concern, when he realized that Gibbs' self-assuredness was lacking, Tony felt his heart rate begin to increase.

Gibbs leaned toward Tony, and when he spoke, there was a muted quality to his voice, and it did nothing to assuage Tony's growing fear. "I want you to hear me when I tell you that you're gonna get through this, DiNozzo. Can you remember that?"

Tony nodded, but knew it was more of an appeasement than an agreement.

Gibbs found his own stoicism slipping, so he grasped hold of Tony's hand, a symbol of their friendship. He shifted his grip on Tony's hand and decided he ought to look Tony square in the eye when he told him what was on his mind. He owed the man that much. "There's an angle we haven't considered. I think it's time we brought your father into the loop." At the mention of his dad, Tony felt a tightening in his chest. Color began to seep into his face, unusual and alarming against his pallid skin. His lips formed words that couldn't come, and so Gibbs filled the void with his own. "Your dad should know. A father should… A father deserves to know about his son's… About his son."

Heat scoured Tony's limbs, and his focus slid away from Gibbs, finding it much too uncomfortable to look at his boss. His brow tightened into a knot. He grabbed the pen, and wrote, "_It won't change anything_."

Gibbs pinched in the corners of his eyes, set his mouth in a tight line, and said, "I'm not looking for change, DiNozzo. But a father…a father should be prepared."

In that somber moment, when a past fraught with tangled and angry words crashed into the unspoken questions of a tenuous future, Tony felt himself begin to crumble. Gibbs' steadfastly held Tony's focus, knowing full well that he had caused this pain. And he knew, he _knew_ the pain had little to do with contacting the senior DiNozzo and everything to do with allowing Tony to see the crack in his resolve that all would be well. Jethro almost wished he could apologize for having let the awful truth of the situation surface, but he'd be damned if he'd further the pain by showing any more weakness. But he wanted to. God, he wanted to.

Pain from the bitter reality of it all, from the plastic tube taped to his cheek and rushed down his trachea, swept across him like a harsh, arid, chafe-filled wind. Tony clutched Gibbs' hand, and reached out for the far bedrail. His nose began to prickle; his eyes began to burn. Tony stared at the innocuous, insouciant wall and tried to force back the emotions bombarding him.

"Tony?"

Tony throttled the bedrail and, crushing shut his eyes, felt his fragile grasp on hope begin to fail.

"Anthony." Jethro leaned in closer to his struggling friend, rested his hand above the pillow, and took note of the single pool of tears collecting near the corner of Tony's eye. He knocked their conjoined hands against his breaking heart, and told him, "It's the right thing to do."

Tony crushed shut his eyes, allowing one tear to escape. "Okay," he meant to say, but no sound escaped. Didn't matter. Gibbs knew.

"Good. Good. I'll make the call in the morning," Gibbs said, laying his cool hand against Tony's feverish brow. Tony nodded. Slipping. Slipping. "Get some sleep. You have a big day tomorrow. You're gonna be fine."

For the first time, Tony took no comfort or confidence in Jethro Gibbs' word.

*****

"This is usually about the time when Gibbs strolls through my door and hands me a Caf-Pow," Abby said.

Quickly glancing her way, Tim said, "Hey, I handed you a Caf-Pow when I came down."

"Yeah, but Gibbs does it in a kind of freaky, precognitive sort of way," she said, waving her fingers next to the computer screen. "You, on the other hand, brought me my master after I texted you, not that it isn't appreciated."

"He's not psychic, you know."

"I knew you were gonna say that, Timmy."

They stared at the screen, at the seemingly endless data, the tickertape of code. An odiferous, gangrenous weed, the case bloomed in front of them, over and over. Although the specifics were unclear, the initial understanding was this thumb drive that Justin Chen had so cleverly hidden and that Tony had so perceptively uncovered was the key to unlock the case. Now that it was unlocked, it was like a high-tech junk drawer, full of all sorts of treasures, as well as junk.

"Okay," Tim said, cradling his aching head in his hand, "we're obviously not looking at a Ping of Death."

"Or a Smurf Attack," Abby said, positioned much the same.

"So, you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"If you're thinking you should be at the hospital, ready to write Tony's blood type and where to cut on his chest with a permanent marker, then yes, that's what I'm thinking," Abby said, never taking her sight from the scrolling data.

Tim pivoted his chin in his hand, squishing his cheek in his palm, and said, "Actually, I was thinking 'keylogger.'"

"Oh," she said. "Well, yeah, I guess I was thinking that, too, along with the whole drawing on Tony's chest thing."

Tim kept his eyes on her and her tenuous grasp on remaining calm in light of Tony's surgery. It was a valiant effort, Tim thought.

When Ducky had called to tell them about Tony's prognosis, Abby had gone into "ohmygod" mode, flapping her hands, walking in circles, repeating the phrase over and over. Tim knew better than to try to stop her. It was just her way of cycling through the initial fear. Finally, after a minute or so, she came to a complete stop, turned to face Tim, and stated, "This is not a bad thing."

"No, it's not," Tim assured her.

"With this thing—"

"An LVAD, left ventricle assist device."

"Right, with that, Tony will be able to walk around," Abby said, repeating what Ducky had told them.

Understanding the technology a little better than ninety-nine percent of the population, having worked on making LVADs more compact, with fewer electrical problems while he was a student at Johns Hopkins, Tim filtered out the esoteric information he had at his disposal and went with the more general information. "Yeah, I mean, potentially he'll be ambulatory, if he's on one with a power pack, but he may require one that tethers him to an air-powered pump, and that bad boy is the size of a desk."

"Not helping, McHopesucker," Abby told him, her fists drilled into her hips. When she began her list of positives once again, she did so while marching. "As I was saying, with this pump, Tony will be able to walk around, and the stronger he is going into transplant surgery, the better." She didn't hear a response from Tim, so she came to an abrupt halt, and said, "This is where you agree with me, Tim."

"Okay, well, yeah, I suppose that's true."

"No supposition! It's an absolute," she told him.

"Look, Abby," he began, ready to bring a little reality into her world.

"If you're going to tell me to not get my hopes up, you can stop right there," she said, pointing her finger at him accusatorily. "I won't let you take this from me."

He knew she was right. And although his biomedical training and scientific mind rationally told him there was no empirical evidence to suggest positive attitude truly affected the outcome of another person's health, he did believe in the power of positive thinking to get through the night. He stepped in front of her, pulled her into a hug, and said, "You're right. I'm sorry. This is a good thing."

"I'm glad you see it my way," she said, hooking her chin on his shoulder, worn out from exhaustion of caring so deeply for such an ill friend.

It was at that point, when they both surrendered to the fact they were powerless, that they decided the best possible use of their energy was to continue on with Justin Chen's data. So they buckled down, allowing the code to fill the screen, occasionally recognizing keystrokes and passwords. When they began to identify specific, personal information from NCIS's agents and cases, they began to also realize the deepening horror of what Justin Chen was involved in, and what may have culminated in his death.

"Do you think we should, at the very least, call Gibbs?" Tim asked.

"Hold on," Abby said, standing up straight, pressing her fingers to her temples and closing her eyes.

"Um, Abs?"

"Is he here?"

Tim looked around the room, almost disappointed that Gibbs hadn't shown up. "Maybe he's waiting for you to call."

"Maybe," Abby said, hunkering down again in front of the monitor.

"But you don't want to call," Tim surmised.

"I just want the world to revolve the way it used to, with Tony here working on the case, and with Gibbs rushing into my lab, and with Ducky not spending all his energy between here and the hospital, and with me feeling like I'm not useless," she said.

"Useless is a word I would never associate with you, Abs," Tim told her.

"Thank you, Timmy," she said, "but until this case is closed, and until the universe goes back to something like normal, I'm feeling a little… something akin to useless."

"So, we don't call Gibbs," Tim said.

"Not until we can earn a 'that's good work, McGee, Abby' from him," she said, mimicking their boss.

"Which would be something like normal," Tim added.

"Exactly."

Tim inhaled and let the air out in one long puff. "Okay, then. We have a lot of work to do."

"Yes, we do," Abby agreed. "But, nobody said we couldn't call Gibbs just to check on Tony."

"We can do that," Tim said, reaching an arm across her shoulders.

Abby took hold of his hand, draped near her neck, and leaned into its warmth. "I think I just saw this program jam the anti-FUD protocol."

"I saw it, too," Tim said. "It's a killer program, except for the minor detail of potentially infiltrating all of NCIS's files."

"I hate this," Abby said.

"The keylogger, or waiting to hear about Tony?"

"Yes."

"Me, too."

Screen after screen, the bones and cartilage of NCIS flashed in front of them. And between each line of code, they thought of Tony.

Somehow, national security was an easier mess to wrap their heads around.

*****

They said the surgery would take a couple hours, and that Tony would be in recovery for most of the day after that. Ducky had shown up prior to the surgery and had been allowed to scrub in, strictly as an observer, so Gibbs knew all the bases were covered where his senior agent was concerned.

He had a call to make.

Even though Gibbs' days began with the sun, he was aware this wasn't necessarily true where the rest of the world was concerned, so he waited until O-nine hundred to place the call.

Stepping into the conference room, Gibbs held his coffee cup in one hand, his cell phone in the other, the number already keyed in. It was just a matter of hitting send.

So why wasn't he hitting send? Gibbs had no compunction about talking to people, especially about conveying terrible news. Just part of the job. He'd made countless "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this" calls, so why was this one any different?

Nope, it wasn't different. Jethro jabbed the send button, and took a swig of coffee. Two rings in, the line picked up.

"Yes?"

Gibbs swallowed, placed the cup on his desk, and said, "Mr. DiNozzo, my name is Special Agent Gibbs from NCIS. I—"

"Is he dead?"

Gibbs blinked. Brusque, he thought. "Uh, no. No, sir. Your son is not dead. He—"

"Then he's in trouble. In jail? What is it?"

Gibbs pressed back in his chair, jutted his chin forward, and said, "No, no trouble. Not like that. Sir—"

"Then why are you calling, Agent…"

"Gibbs, Special Agent Jethro Gibbs," he reminded the man, finding his sense of sympathy with the man quickly waning. "I'm calling as a courtesy to your son, Mr. DiNozzo. He—"

"Agent Gibbs," interrupted the senior DiNozzo, elongating each word, inoculating his name with scornful disdain. Gibbs dropped the phone to his lap, reached for his coffee, and let the man ramble on unheard. After Gibbs had enjoyed a long sip of coffee, he lifted the receiver back to his ear. "…took only my name, and I expect him to keep his part of that agreement." There was nothing Mr. DiNozzo had to offer that Gibbs found even slightly relevant, so he remained silent, not wishing to be interrupted by the verbose man when he did decide to speak again. "Agent Gibbs, are you still there?" Jethro drank his coffee and let the man wonder. Bastard. "Agent Gibbs?"

"Uh, yup. Still here."

"Mr. Gibbs, are do you have children?"

Jethro leaned forward, pulled the phone from his ear, closed his eyes, and decided he really disliked Tony's old man. After a moment, he returned to the phone. "No, sir, I don't," was his answer, not necessarily a lie, but he wouldn't give the son of a bitch any cause for further comment.

"Then you can't possibly understand the complexities of my position, the father of a resentful, impetuous, disrespectful boy."

Boy. The word stuck like barbed wire in Gibbs' craw, and his anger began to simmer. A brittle, sardonic laugh rumbled from his mouth. "Yeah," he said, nodding, "you're probably right. But here's what I can understand. Your son is in a Bethesda, Maryland hospital undergoing open-heart surgery, and to be honest, Mr. DiNozzo, he's not doin' too good." Gibbs paused to let the message sink in, and when an appreciable amount of silence filled the line, he went on. "Now, I didn't call you this morning to ask you for anything, and God knows I'm not calling because Tony asked me to. No, I'm calling because I didn't want my first call to you to be the one giving you the plans for his funeral." And there it was. There was the truth, the one that Gibbs didn't even want to admit to himself. Somehow, in the wake of such brazen selfishness and disregard where his son was concerned, the truth turned out to be just the weapon Gibbs was looking for to clamp down on his own burgeoning frustration.

When the voice on the other end of the line came once again, all the bluster and puffed-up indignation was gone, but none of it ameliorated Gibbs' anger. "Agent Gibbs," the senior DiNozzo began, and Jethro sipped his coffee. "Agent Gibbs, tell Anthony… Tell my son—"

"Nope," Gibbs said, rising from his chair, "I'm not your son's messenger. You have something to say, you know where to find him. Hope that's not too…complex for you." And with a quick snap, the phone was closed, and the conversation was ended. Gibbs took the final swig of his coffee, dropped the empty cup into the trashcan and his phone into his pocket, and moved on with his day.

*****


	11. Chapter 11

You wouldn't BELIEVE the month I've had! Fortunately, I used our many trips to the hospital and the myriads of doctor appointments to inform this latest chapter. Of course, that also accounts for the fact that this might have a load of mistakes and really sketchy research. Like, how long does a mass spectrometer actually take to analyze a sample? I don't know. So, here it is, the latest chapter.

Oh, and we're all fine here. Or, we will be. Let's just say my husband and I know more about renal stents and the effect of general anesthetics on scarred lungs than we ever wanted to know. I'm pretty sure my next fiction will be a "House" fanfic about kidney stones, sarcoidosis, and menorrhagia.

*****

With Tim working on sorting out all the data from the thumb drive, and Abby processing a stinking, decayed satchel, and Ducky processing an even worse decapitated head, Ziva sat alone at her desk, a buzz of unused energy racing through her body.

What she wouldn't give for a paper wad fight, or a spit wad fight. Or a full-out, one-on-one, fight-to-the-finish flirt fest, the kind that usually left Tony speechless and Ziva bellowing.

No matter how often she looked across the squad room, she still couldn't get over the fact that he wasn't there.

So Ziva didn't look.

She had returned from the Dismal Swamp covered in dirt, with a memory card full of pictures. Unfortunately, the scene where the head had been found had been, as the ranger said, "compromised," which meant the tourist who brought the bag to the ranger station couldn't remember exactly where they had found it. Ziva was forced, then, to grouse about the general area taking shots from as many different vantage points as possible, all in hopes that something might be helpful. However, after eight weeks since the rest of Justin Chen's body had shown up, the scene was certainly more than simply compromised.

Once back at the Navy Yard, once she had deposited the head with Ducky and the duffel with Abby, the two women were able to compare the bag to the one they had spotted on the security tapes. It certainly looked like it, but without more substantial proof, their lead was tantamount to an inchworm. When they had run the man's image from the tapes through the recognition software at the time they found the shot, nothing had come up.

Of course, that didn't mean he, whoever he was, wasn't a suspect. It was finding him that was the problem. They had a screen capture of a sedan issued to the Chinese Embassy, but multiple calls to the embassy had offered up nothing, which meant the officials either truly had nothing to offer, or they were stonewalling. It was generally believed that the latter was more likely the truth, and the inability to move forward in the case because of their resistance was an unending source of anger for Ziva.

There were times in her life working with an American agency that Ziva David, a product of the Mossad, found difficult to comprehend. And although she understood, appreciated and even respected due process of the law, once in a while her predilection to eschew bureaucracy was palpable. This, dealing with a secretive, fortress of an embassy that was passive-aggressively protecting a possible killer, enraged her. Better to gather the intelligence for herself, with or without their permission or knowledge, than to simply sit on her hands waiting for them to dole out spoonfuls of obfuscated information.

But, she was no longer Mossad, and she was no longer able or required to live her life under the radar. So, she rose from her desk, took a deep, centering breath, and ventured into the precarious world of interagency networking.

"Gibbs," she said, coming to a stop in front of his desk, "I have been thinking."

"Well, good, David," he said, affixing his signature to the bottom of a paper. "That's why we pay you."

Ziva rolled her eyes and regrouped. "I have been thinking that perhaps we could prevail upon your friend Agent Fornell—"

"He's not my friend."

"Fine, your colleague."

"Not my colleague, either."

"Well, whatever he is," she said, frustrated by his continual interjections, "perhaps we could ask him for assistance with the Chinese Embassy."

"Are you telling me you aren't able to do your job?" he asked, giving her his full attention and leveling her with soul-penetrating insinuation.

"I have come to a…dead end, it would seem," she admitted, feeling her spine begin to crackle with indignation. "If, on the other hand, you would allow me some latitude and a piano wire, I could quite easily find the answers to all my questions."

"Fresh out of piano wires," Gibbs said, closing the file on his desk. He stood up, took the final sip of his coffee, and disposed of the cup. "Do you think you've exhausted all your possibilities?"

"Yes, I believe I have," she said, a curt clip to her words. "I have called numerous times, have gone to the embassy and asked to speak to a whole laundered list of names, have contacted them by email, and I have not been given any reciprocity."

"Laundry list," Gibbs said.

"Laundered, laundry, my point is, I'm getting nowhere," Ziva said, throwing her hands into the air. "That is why I must insist we reach out to Agent Fornell. Now, I am aware of your personal history with Fornell, and I understand this will not be your first choice. Perhaps not even top ten, but putting aside your prejudice against the man, I believe he is our greatest hope for breaking open this case."

"Do ya now?"

"Yes, and furthermore, without his help, we may be spinning our wheels—It is wheels, yes? Yes. Spinning our wheels for weeks, weeks that we do not have."

"Ziva…"

"I, for one, am growing weary of waiting for the Chinese Embassy to give us even mere morsels of information, information that could quite possibly end this case."

"I agree."

"So, you'll call him?"

"Nope."

"But, I have given you very good reasons for needing Agent Fornell's assistance."

"I know."

"Then why will you not at least make the call? Certainly, you understand—"

"Better speak slowly and use small words," said the voice behind Ziva. "Jethro's not as young as he used to be."

She stared at Gibbs, feeling equal parts embarrassment and annoyance. "I thought you said you would not call him."

"I didn't," Gibbs said, coming around the side of his desk. "I emailed him. Thanks for coming, Tobias."

"So," Fornell said, offering his hand to Gibbs, "what trouble are you in this time?"

Gibbs shook the man's hand, and said, "Why don't we step into my office?"

Ziva halted them with a gesture. "This sneaking up on people—did either of you think that this may have caused your shared ex-wife to leave you for the same reason?" she said, still peeved.

The two looked at each other, and then at Ziva. Gibbs said, "Actually, I think she left us for the same reason she married us. For the money."

"Yeah," Fornell added, "and when she found out I was just as broke as Jethro, she not only bankrupted me, but she also took a freezer full of beef. By the way, good to see you too, Miss David."

Gibbs moved them along to the elevator, but not before adding, "Ziva, why don't you see if that landlord has anything new to add." Ziva nodded, and grabbed her gear.

"So," Fornell said, walking toward the elevator with a greasy smirk upon his lips, "what'd DiNozzo do this time?"

Gibbs looked him over, and, pressing the button, said, "What makes you think this is about DiNozzo?"

"Well, seeing as how the calendar behind his desk hasn't been turned over in two months and there's dust on his monitor, I'd say he's either in jail or agent afloating. Again." Gibbs smiled, shook his head, and when the doors whooshed open, stepped into the lift. Fornell followed him, smug and full of salty barbs. "So, either he did something, or…someone, or he pissed someone off."

Gibbs laughed, an ironic, humorless sound, and once the doors were closed, he flipped the emergency toggle, and office hours began. "We're in the middle of a case that's hitting dead ends."

"I'm listening."

"We have a dead NCIS intern with a thumb drive full of NCIS data. We also have a picture of a possible Chinese national and an embassy driver who might have known our intern," Gibbs said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the elevator wall. "Our requests for information are falling on deaf ears. Your reach is a little longer than mine, so…."

"Oh, boy, admitting that had to hurt," Fornell said, laughing.

"Little bit."

Fornell slid his hands into his suit pockets, and perused Gibbs' current state. "Tell ya what—you tell me what DiNozzo did to be put out to pasture, and I'll think about extending my impressively wide reach."

"I would think that impressively wide reach would have known about DiNozzo before you needed to ask," Gibbs smirked.

"Let's say I do know," Fornell said, toying with Gibbs. "Why don't we compare notes?"

Gibbs looked him over, partially angered by the intimation, partially troubled by the fact Fornell would soon be shamed into a stumbling apology. "He's in Bethesda Naval, in the cardiac intensive care unit."

"You're kidding," Fornell said, all the puffery gone.

"Wish I were," Gibbs said, propelling himself from the wall to come closer to Fornell. He slipped two glossy pictures from his breast pocket and handed them to Fornell. "Now, you gonna give me a hand on this case, or not?"

Fornell just stared at his friend for a moment, shocked by news. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Whatever you need," he said, taking the pictures and placing them in his overcoat. "What the hell happened to Tony?"

Gibbs snapped down the toggle, and the elevator took a jolt. "Couple months ago, he contracted a virus. Ate up his heart."

"My god, Jethro," Fornell said, not able to keep his eyes off Gibbs. "Is it that bad?"

"He's on the transplant wait list," he told him, his voice quiet, tired. The doors opened again, and Gibbs exited, leaving Fornell alone in the compartment, undone and breathless. "I'd appreciate any help you can give us."

"You got it," Fornell said. "Tell Tony… Tell him… Ah, hell. Maybe I'll just pay him a visit."

Gibbs shrugged, nodded. "The intern's name was Justin Chen. We need to know the other guy."

"Chen. Got it."

"Thanks, Tobias."

"No problem."

And then he was gone.

*****

Ducky just didn't have the energy to traipse around the hospital, following Tony from the CICU to the step-down unit. He didn't particularly care to wait in Tony's room, either, nor did he relish the thought of hunkering down in the on-call room. So he went to the cafeteria and ordered up a bit of food. It wasn't until he sat down to eat that he realized how long it had been since he actually took the time for a meal. Between NCIS, the hospital, and the assisted-living facility, Ducky was completely and utterly spent.

He was intimately familiar with this condition; had often come to its crossroads in his long career. If he hadn't been so fatigued, he would have found the psychological nomenclature for it, but as it stood, all Ducky could come up with was too many days and weeks burning the candle at both ends, and his center was quickly dwindling. A red tray in front of him, with a carelessly chosen protein, and perfunctorily chosen vegetable, and a hastily chosen starch, and all Ducky could do was stare at it. He knew he should eat. He knew he was more than likely dehydrated. Serving no one and nothing but self-pity by staring at the sustenance, Ducky began to eat. And then drink.

Amazing what a little food can do for the spirit. He thought he might just force himself to sleep later that night, as well.

Half an hour later, Ducky ambled into the step-down ward, said his hellos to the nursing staff, made his way into Tony's room. He wasn't sure what he'd find. After all, the man had undergone open-heart surgery forty-eight hours earlier. So he prepared himself for whatever he might find. More than likely, a sore, groggy man with the immense burden of an impending second open-heart surgery weighing heavily on him.

Sitting up, a healthy flush to his skin, Tony smiled at the older man. "Hey, Duck. How's it goin'?"

"My goodness," Ducky said, amazed. He stood at the foot of Tony's bed, and gawked at the man. "The puffiness is gone, the pink has been restored to your cheeks—you look splendid, Anthony."

"Oh, good, 'cause I feel like Splenda," Tony said. When Ducky stared at him in confusion, Tony went on. "It's a sweetener. Artificial, hence the play on…So, good to see you too, Ducky."

"Well, I am quite pleased that you are doing so well. Quite pleased, indeed," Ducky said, tapping the end of the bed, invigorated by the surprising sight before him.

An insistent cadence caught Ducky's attention, and the furrow of his brow told Tony that the doctor, although probably quite familiar with cardiac implants, was not familiar with those implants that were activated inside a living body. "That clip-clop you hear? Yeah, that's the pump and my new heartbeat. Very Johnny Mercer."

"The rhythm of life," Ducky mused. "Fascinating, in all its incarnations."

"Ironic, isn't it? I never wanted a pony, but now I sound like one."

"Careful what you _don't_ wish for," Ducky said.

"I tell you what I wish—I wish I could get out of this bed," Tony said, pressing his elbows into the bed to adjust his position. A sizzle of pain shot through his chest, and Tony winced. "Maybe in a couple days. Or weeks."

"Can I offer you some assistance?"

"Nah, I'm just… They tell me it's the incision and not the addition of the small kitchen appliance in my chest, but whatever it is…" he explained, squeezing his eyes shut tight, working through the pain. "I'll be fine. Give me a second."

"Well," Ducky said, moving the turquoise lounger from the corner to the side of the bed, "I think you're doing remarkably well for having had open-heart surgery so recently."

"It helps that I'm gonked on morphine and fentanyl." Tony licked his lips, his eyes still closed, waiting for the sharpest points of pain to dissipate. And when it did, he said, "I'm getting' pretty good at scheduling my torture sessions with the spirometer right around the peak of my pain meds' effectiveness. And just so we're crystal, I'm not at my peak right now. At least my blood-ox levels are higher than they've been in months."

"Spoken like a veteran cardiac patient," Ducky said, lowering himself into the chair.

Letting out a held breath through rounded lips, Tony said, "Yeah, ain't that a kick in the pants."

Ducky hunkered down and rested his cheek against one propped-up fist. "There's that famous indomitable spirit."

Tony, suddenly aware of how near he was to an unwanted pep talk, edged away. "Still, it could be worse."

"I agree absolutely."

Tony looked down at the tubes sprouting from his chest, some connected to the pump, some placed to drain fluids. After two days, he could almost view them without swooning. "A couple more artificial parts, and I'll be a Detroit Cop, roaming the halls, telling the nurses, 'Excuse me. I have to go. Somewhere there's a crime happening.'"

"Yes, well, let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Tony leaned back into his pillow, tapped his fingers against his blankets, and considered all the alterations in his life. Willing to step into the philosophical, if only to test the waters, he said, "It's funny how your priorities change, ya know?"

"Major illnesses have a way of doing that."

"Yeah, I guess so," Tony said, staring into the past. "Four months ago my greatest dream was to find a hair product that wouldn't leave a residue on my scalp. Now, I dream about peeing standing up. And, you know, a little about hair products, but mostly the whole peeing standing up thing."

"Your priorities have always had a certain unique quality," Ducky said, an enervated smile resting across his lips.

Tony gazed into the space between the two men. There was something that scurried around in his head during his waking hours, a strange, intangible niggling of an image from his resting hours. He decided to run it past the pathologist to get Ducky's take on it all. "Speaking of dreams, I've been having some, uh, strange ones."

"Not an uncommon phenomenon when one is on a cocktail of medications such as yours," Ducky told him.

"Well, whatever it is, these are…" Tony let loose a quick laugh, and tried again, "these are wack-a-doo. Wack-a-doodier than my usual fare. I keep dreaming that I'm in this huge room, almost like one of those gothic cathedrals, you know? Like…like Notre Dame in Paris."

"Ah, Paris…"

"Okay, yeah," Tony said, wondering what story was behind Ducky's sudden venture into reverie, "we're definitely coming back to that. About five minutes after they give me a bolus of morphine. But if you could focus, you know, just for a minute, a smidge, what I was trying to tell you was this dream of mine…"

"Right. We were in the Cathedrale Notre Dame de Paris," Ducky said, his dialect thick and precise.

"And I'm calling out to someone, anyone, and it's always—get this—Jeanne who shows up."

"Oh, my," Ducky said, peering into Tony's troubled expression.

"You're tellin' me," Tony said. "I keep asking her a question, but I'm not sure what it is. All I know is she's pissed, and she's not about to give a brother a hand."

"What do you think it means?" Ducky asked.

"I was kind of hoping you'd tell me," Tony said, imploring Ducky with his tired eyes.

"I'm not sure," Ducky told him, trying to quash a yawn. "Perhaps you could keep a journal next to your bed and write down your dreams."

Tony sighed, and said, "She's always fully dressed, too, which, you can imagine, adds to my angst."

"You are feeling better, aren't you," Ducky said, amused by the return of inappropriate-Tony.

Tony smiled, knowing how long it had been since he, too, felt like himself. Not quite there, but closer than even two days earlier, Tony breathed and listened to the metronomic quality of his heart pump, and while he did, he watched the older man, saw the deep fatigue in his face, in the slump of his body. "You look tired, Duck."

"To be honest, I am exhausted," Ducky said, shifting his position in the slick, vinyl chair.

"How's the Chen case going?"

"Our Mr. Palmer is working on the deceased's rather putrefied head, even as we speak," Ducky told him. "Justin is in capable hands. Oh ,yes, he says hello. Jimmy, that is. Not Chen."

"I thought as much."

"As a matter of fact," Ducky went on, raising one emphatic finger, "it's precisely because of those hands that I am, for the first time in my career, considering retirement."

Taken aback, Tony blinked, and then laughed. "I'm sorry. Must be delayed general-anesthesia psychosis. Did you just say you're thinking of retiring?"

"Stranger things have happened, my boy," Ducky told him. "I am, after all, knocking on the door of my golden years."

"What would you do?"

"Oh, any number of things. I've become quite enamored of the Brazilian martial arts form, capoeira. Might give it a go. Or, perhaps I'll rekindle my love for the marimba."

"I seem to sense a theme emerging."

Shrugging, Ducky continued, "Of course, all of my plans are contingent upon Mother."

"How is your mom?"

Ducky breathed deeply, let it out in a weary gust, and said, "Her health continues to decline. She is no longer speaking."

"That's gotta be rough."

"When I visit her, there's not even a…spark of recognition anymore." Ducky jutted forth his chin, and considered a proper analogy. "It's as if her memories were all written down in a book that she kept up on a shelf. Now, it seems, that book has been erased, or the pages have been ripped out and replaced with pages from a completely different text. Or worse, she doesn't remember what the book is a' tall. Likely, that's the case." Suddenly on the brink of unbidden emotion, a product of stress and fatigue, Ducky sat up in the chair, wove his shaking fingers together, and paused. Finally, he said, "I'd like to think somewhere deep inside her is a memory of our lives together. Selfish, I know. _I_ need her to remember _me_ more than _she_ needs to remember me. It's all rather unsettling."

Tony stared at the man, compassion filling his demeanor. "Who could forget you, Ducky?"

Ducky snorted, and said, "So I've been told." He pulled his glasses from his nose, wiped down the lenses, and pulled himself together.

"You should go home, Ducky."

"Oh, but I haven't been by to visit in a few days, and I wanted—"

"Look, not that I don't appreciate you coming by, but," Tony said, shaking his head, "you don't get some sleep, and you're going to be in the bed next door."

Ducky considered Tony's words, and said, "Perhaps you're right." He pushed himself heavily from the chair. Ducky drew in air, held it for a moment, and let it go, giving in to the deep fatigue. "Oh," he said, raising a finger, "I almost forgot." From his coat pocket, he drew a stubby, blue stapler. Placing it in Tony's hand, he said, "I witnessed the director eyeing it rather covetously."

Tony knew it was meant as a friendly gesture, humorous even, but something ached inside Tony. He meant to say thank you, but his voice was suddenly strangled. Tony nodded, and knocked the fisted stapler against his leg.

Ducky, too tired to notice the change in Tony's demeanor, clicked his heels together, and saluted Tony. "Until we meet again."

Tony smiled, jaws clenched, and pointed at him, and Ducky clapped his hand against the younger man's leg before lumbering from the room.

Once alone, Tony opened his hand and looked over the stapler, at Mighty Mouse's fist raised in victory, in strength. Ducky didn't know. How could Ducky know? By bringing Tony this silly little stapler, Ducky was removing Tony from the office. Piece by piece, he was losing his place. Next, they'd bring him his "American Pie" mug, then his Ohio State jacket. His whole life would be brought to his room, left in good-natured piles. "Thought you might like to have this," they'd say. And he'd thank them, knowing that with each memento, he'd be disappearing from their lives. From life.

And soon enough his heart would be gone. What would be left then? An empty cavity where a man once lived, where life once roared and pounded. Gone. All evidence swept away. Piled at his feet.

Until only memory remained. Memory that was as fragile as caked powder. Memory that didn't last, couldn't last. Ice flooded his veins, a visceral reaction that preceded conscious understanding. Deep within his chest, his heart thumped, and the monitors next to his bed gave quantitative values to his newfound fear.

He was disappearing.

*****

With only the eyebrow window's light to fill the room, Abby meandered through her lab, flipping on switches, pressing buttons, offering her machinery all her love and confidence. One by one, monitors began to glow, and one by one, the monitors came alive with a solemn image—a lone candle, burning gold in a dark frame, all starburst and silence.

"Day 63, Major Mass-Spec," she said, looking into the maw of the great instrument. She frowned, nodded, and said, "I know, I miss him too." Pulling latex gloves over her hands, Abby plunged into her work.

The night before she had taken fiber samples from the retrieved duffle bag, had scraped sediments out of its inner compartments and from its outer shell, had bagged unzipped its many compartments, bagging loose particles of barely distinguishable tissues, of strange condiment packets and even stranger a preponderance of used, empty, flaccid packets. When her eyes began to droop with fatigue, Abby logged off all her computers and closed up shop.

She picked up an evidence bag in which she had placed an odd looking packet, stained brown from the sludge of the Dismal Swamp. Still pregnant with its contents, Abby slipped the packet from the bag and placed it on her counter. She grabbed her camera from the shelf, snapped a picture, and went to the work of examining the packet. It wasn't liquid, that was certain, but the insides felt gummy. Probably a result of moisture seeping in during its time in the swamp. Snipping a sliver from the edge, Ziva placed the miniscule amount of packaging on an awaiting Petri dish. Next, she sliced open the container and scooped out a dot of its innards. Off white, milky, like taupe clay, Abby was more personally curious than professionally. Still, her training told her personal curiosity was the hallmark of serendipitous discovery, so she placed the dollop into the mass spectrometer, and said, "Ready to ionize, analyze and detect, Major?"

Putting the instrument on task, Abby turned to the other samples, readying them for analysis. Once each compartment was thoroughly swabbed for any remaining residue other than Dismal Swamp ookies, Abby began the meticulous process of searching for fingerprints.

She hadn't pulled her brush and powder from its compartment when Major Mass-Spec beeped. Surprised by the speed at which the major had analyzed the goo, Abby twirled around, stared at the instrument, and dug her fists into her hips. "I'm impressed, Major. I knew the minute I walked in this morning that you and I were going to have a good day."

"The real question is: am I gonna have a good day?" Gibbs said, popping in, a fresh Caf-Pow clenched in his hand.

"Have I told you lately that I love you?" she asked, her mouth curled into a flirtatious smile.

"What d'ya got, Rod Stewart?" he asked, clapping the cup onto her counter.

"Actually, Gibbs," she said, "that song was written by Marty Robbins, but I'll give you credit for having some understanding of late twentieth-century American pop music."

"Actually, Abby," he retorted, "I'd rather you give me some information."

"Then you're in luck," she said, pulling up the analysis from the spectrometer onto her computer screen. "The major was just about to elucidate me, which I will, in turn, use to elucidate you. But, to be honest, I don't think this is going to be the do-all and end-all of evidence. I think it's going to be one of those, 'Huh. So that's what that was' moments, instead of a 'So THAT's how they did it' moments. That being said, I'm fairly sure, well, pretty sure that something will…" Gibbs rocked from one foot to the other, growing impatient with her explanation, and Abby took that as her signal to wrap it up. "Okay, so I opened a packet of, well, goop that came out of that duffel bag, and had it analyzed. And… here's what the major has to say," she said, finishing up her tapping of computer keys. A schemata like a colorful mountain range popped up on his screen, and Abby's eyes grew wide with wonder.

"What is it, Abs?" Gibbs asked.

"Um," she said, her fingers tracing the peaks of analyzed data, "basically, it's milk solids and other compounds found in the swamp."

"You analyzed a pack of Coffee-Mate?" Gibbs, dubious, asked.

"Technically, Coffee-Mate is a non-dairy creamer, Gibbs, and this is most definitely dairy, but see this peak?" she said, pointing to a high, yellow point. "This is melamine, an organic compound. It's used to make a variety of different things, but it can also mask as a cheap protein solid."

"So you found a fake coffee creamer?"

"Well, kind of," she said. "Okay, remember a couple years ago when all those animals were dying from tainted pet food? It was because the food was produced in plants that had included melamine in order to boost the protein content. Not cool. Poor animals died of renal failure, and that, Gibbs, is a terrible way to die."

"I'm sure it is, Abs, but what does it have to do with my case?" Gibbs asked.

"There's only one place where melamine is added to milk products, and that's China," Abby told him, her smile wide, her eyes pinched with vengeance. "And that, my friend, is what we like to call a lead."

Gibbs looked over the graph, quirked a crooked smile, and said, "That's good work, Abs."

"Don't tell me," she said, sipping from her vat of a cup, "tell the major."

"I'll let you convey my pleasure," he said, placing a kiss on her temple.

"Oh, hey," she said, catching him before he breezed out of the lab, "when you catch whoever owned this bag, check them for kidney stones. From the looks of things, whoever it is soooo doesn't drink his coffee ala Gibbs."

Gibbs offered a silent thumbs-up before the doors to the lab closed behind him, and Abby pivoted to face her favorite piece of equipment. "In our next lives, major, when we take very different corporeal forms, I think you and I will be very happy."

*****

An hour earlier, she had sat with dignitaries, luminaries, the glittering well-spoken community of displaced or visiting Israelis. The objective of the night was to entice, to be alluring. With her sleek body poured into a Vera Wang gown, Ziva glided amongst the crowd, nodding her greetings to some, lightly touching cheeks with others. The music of crystal champagne flutes and soft twitters of laughter infused the air. Her native language, a comfort to her ears, provided the mellifluous, sometimes percussive underpinning of the melody. She slipped from one couple to the next, smiling, greeting, knowing the second she'd turn away, their eyes would fall to the plunging back of her gown, to the daring exposure of the dimples pressed into the small of her back, her skin the texture of rose petals. And as she sauntered away, her wine-stained lips, coy and confident, curled up on one side.

Tonight was a night for Ziva the woman, not Ziva the warrior. She sought out to be seen for her feminine guile, not her assassin skill. Yes, there were times when those two intersected, but not here, not tonight. Tonight, she sipped from the crystal flute, enjoyed the play of sparkling wine across her tongue, drew the blade of one finger across her décolletage, and gloried in the eyes drawn furtively upon her.

But the exercise seemed somehow hollow, lost in the perfunctory manner in which all embassy dinners were carried out, with politically pertinent words and carefully chosen gestures. Before dinner was served, Ziva decided to take her evening elsewhere, to a place where her flirtatious eyes and her silken skin would be appreciated. Where a spectacularly pair of green eyes would unapologetically scan every inch of her. Some inches more thoroughly than others…

At the very least, she wanted to be some place where she knew her taunt would not go unnoticed. It was their…thing. She'd flirt; he'd flirt back. She'd emasculate him; he'd laugh and come back for more. Never the question "Could we do this?" but the knowledge "Oh, we could _totally_ do this, but it will never happen." Always that zing, that dance on the razor's edge of temptation, dangerous and delicious. It was precisely what she had in mind when she bought the dress. Even in cardiac intensive care, she knew Tony would react in a "red light" way to her and the dress. She counted on it.

Making her way through the crowd, heady with matriculation and political prowess, Ziva said her goodbyes, a light touch here, a warm smile there. When she found the ambassador and his wife, she shook both their hands and told them she was needed back on the naval base on official business.

"Thank you for inviting me," she said. "It was an honor and a privilege to be here."

Clasping her arm, a fatherly, unwanted gesture, the Israeli Ambassador said, "Please give our best to your Eli."

"Yes, well," she said, becoming tight, her eyes evasive. "Thank you again. Have a lovely evening. Shalom."

And even though it seemed odd and inappropriate to walk through the cardiac and thoracic medicine wing of the hospital in a full evening gown with only a velvet wrap to cover her bare shoulders, it also seemed thrilling and perversely amusing. She hoped Tony would feel the same. She had a notion he might.

A step away from his room, Ziva dabbed her lower lip, smoothing her lip color. She tossed her hair, pressed down her shoulders, and let the velvet throw slide to her elbows. Then, she breezed in to taunt her partner, a long-standing, thrilling game they both enjoyed.

His lips were slack; his hands still. The edge of the surgical dressing peeked out from under his gown. A blank, vacant look veiled his eyes. The constant murmur of the heart pump, like a far away vacuum cleaner left on, polluted the air. The moment she laid eyes on him, on his gaunt, ashen features, on the tubes that bound him to the pumping device, her grandiosity deflated. Ziva worked her wrap back up over shoulders and across her décolletage. She thought she'd just say hello, quietly, in the softest possible manner, and then leave. He probably shouldn't be disturbed. Why had she waltzed in dressed like that? What was she—

"Hey."

Ziva flinched, then padded over toward him, clutching the velvet close to her chest. She felt the sudden flush of embarrassment suffuse her cheeks. "I can come back another time."

"No. Stay." His eyes, heavy with fatigue, with pain, closed. "One of those days. The medication… The medication isn't quite doing the job it should. Or, I'm on my way out. Or, I'm only dreaming that I'm in pain. Or, I'm hallucinating because of the pain. Either way, not a great day."

"Then maybe I should go," she said.

"No. Please, don't." Tony opened his eyes, blinked, licked his lips, and took in the sight before him. To her dress and how it clung to her hips, to her manicured hands and how they clung to her wrap. He conjured up a smile, and said, "You look pretty."

In three words, her partner had managed to fill the objective for the night, to see the woman and not the warrior. A different kind of warmth came to her face, and she let one end of the velvet wrap slip fall away. "Thank you, Tony," she said.

"That's the Vera Wang, isn't it?" he asked, smiling still over chapped lips.

"Yes," she said. "I'm surprised you remember." Ziva slid the wrap from her shoulders, folded it, and draped it over the foot of his bed.

"Oh, I remember," Tony said. "I remember the important things. Eggplant, by the way."

"Excuse me?"

"Xatzeel. It means eggplant."

Ziva slapped her forehead and blurted out, "Of course! Xatzeel." Ziva paused in her epiphany, realizing that Tony had been the one to provide it. "How is it you know this?"

"Yeah, so this four-hundred-year-old woman came to my room the other day, one of those volunteers, you know? She asked if I wanted to take communion," Tony told her, swallowing, wondering if he should call the nurse again. "I told her I was Jewish." He shrugged and tried to laugh. "She sent up a rabbi. I felt bad, so I wanted to make it worth his time. We had an interesting conversation, Bubbala."

Ziva rolled her eyes, tried not to laugh, but did. She perched herself on the edge of his bed and crossed her legs, one arm bridged over his legs. "I may sit here, yes?"

Tony smiled, took in her flirtatious pose, and said, "You wear that, and you can sit anywhere you want."

It pleased Ziva that she was able to bring him this modicum of pleasure, and it pleased her too that she was able to draw some from him. This was what she missed most, the cat and mouse, innocuous banter between them.

"Do not become too excited," she said, raising a well-sculpted brow. "First, I do not believe your heart can handle it."

"Cold."

"Second," she said, suggestively, "I have tonight turned down the advances of men more powerful than you, better looking—which, obviously, goes without saying. So, your chances with me are slim."

"Slim means there's still a chance," Tony said, laying his hand out for her. "I've done more with less."

"Of this, I am sure," she told him, slapping her hand into his, a sign of camaraderie and friendship. But the temperature had changed, somehow. A tension had pricked up in his features, one he fought against. Ziva grasped more purposefully to his hand, and looked deeply into his eyes, heavy and dark with sudden anguish. Or maybe it had been there from the start, and she had been to caught up in the game to notice. "Tony?"

"Hey, Ziva," he whispered, holding her with his eyes so powerfully it frightened her, "promise me something."

"Yes, of course."

Tony swallowed, hoping to loosen the constriction in his throat. "Sit shiva for me. Please."

Air left her lungs. Her brain ceased to function. Stunned, blood flowing backwards in her veins, Ziva stared at Tony. When, at last, time began to move forward, when her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, when she was able to breathe once again, Ziva choked out, "What do you know of shiva?"

He stammered at first, caught between the frantic desire to deny he was serious and the more desperate need to beg this of her. "I know I'm not one of your seven."

"No, you're not," she said, the familiar protective wall around her heart bricking up once again, her spine becoming rigid in defense. "Besides, shiva is only for—"

"I know what it's for," he told her, and in his eyes, she understood his fear and the stark reality with which he was living, a reality she wanted so badly to pretend didn't exist. "The way I figure it," he said, attempting a weak smile, barely able to mask the burden in his soul, "we're it. Those seven? You and me, Ziva, we don't have children, no siblings, not anymore, not even mothers. We got fathers who might as well be dead. Never been married. But, we have… I have a partner. You. You're the closest thing I have to a…to one of my seven. Please, Ziva," he whispered, his voice choked, "tell me you'll remember me. Sit shiva for me."

She wanted to run, to turn from him, to tell him to be a man. But that would only be for her comfort. How could she, thrumming with life and health, deny him, trembling with fear and illness, this honesty? How selfish, she thought, to think only of her own comfort. How hard it must have been for him to speak those words, to bare himself to her, to lay before her, shaking, pleading with her. Here he was, facing his mortality, and she dared turn away? The gall. For weeks she had fought against those dark, foreboding nightmares that Tony might not recover. She had clawed them out of her mind. And now, now he was supplicating himself before her, pleading with her to join him in those dark, cold places. It was beyond anything she could imagine. Death had come to her life many times before, and she had always dealt with the devastation in its wake. Never had she been asked to prepare for death. But, for him, for their friendship, she would put aside her anxious trepidations, and she would face the awful, possible truth with him. She owed him this.

Ziva sat up straight, lifted her chin, her eyes darting from side to side. She dug deep to find her center, to allow her to speak the words she knew he needed to hear, words she did not want to say. "I will sit shiva for you, Tony," she said, her voice even and calm, belying the deep grief in her heart. "I will shut up my windows and cover my mirrors with black cloth. For one week, I will sit near the floor, a sign of how my grief has brought me low. I shall wear a black ribbon over my…heart," she said, tripping over the word, "rent from the bottom up, to show the great chasm in my soul. Your friends and I will tell stories of you, of your life, and we shall laugh. And we shall cry. And I will say the Kaddish prayer, every day for seven days, and every month in the year that follows your…death." She stopped then, and watched tears slip from his closed eyes, across his flushed cheeks, and it was her undoing. Bowed by grief, her hand pressed to her bosom, she no longer could hold back her roiling emotions. "But I will not sit Shiva for you, Tony, until I am fully gray and half-blind with age. Your grandson will call me, and he will tell me that you died in your sleep, that you were at peace. Then, Tony, then, many, many years from now, I will sit shiva for you. But not now," she wept, falling to bury her face in his neck. "Please do not ask me to do this now. I cannot say the Kaddish for another. Not now, Tony. Please, Tony." The soft touch of her shaking hands lit upon his cheek, and as she wept, she thumbed away his tears.

Too painful, too difficult to stop the flow of tears, Tony anchored his hand to Ziva's arm and pressed into the warmth of her, simply allowing his tears to fall, his rounded lips puffing at air.

So they remained that way, weeping for his body, weeping for their potential loss. For a future that seemed so unsure, for a future without the other that seemed so bleak. How they relied on each other; how a partnership, tenuous at first, fraught with tension at times, sustained them both, had seen them through heartbreak and devastation, and had done so with honesty, brutal but true. It was this hard-won partnership, borne of obstreperousness and pugnacity, that graced them now in their time of shared sorrow. And so they wept, her hand cupped against his stubbled cheek, his hand hooked to her bare arm.

Finally, when the tears abated, when the tremors stilled, Tony whispered her name, and she his.

"How many grandchildren?" he asked, smoothing the soft skin of her wrist with the pad of his thumb.

"Oh, um," she said, catching up with his thought process, "six. No, eight."

Tony smiled, his eyes crinkled, moist with tears, and he pictured the brood. "Nice. Nice. And children?"

Ziva brushed back the hair at his temple, and said, "Four girls; one boy."

"The DiNozzo name lives on," he said, and they shared a gentle laugh. "Do they look like me?"

"Yes, all the girls do," she teased. "The boy looks like his mother."

"I hope he has your eyes," Tony told her, peeking at her sidelong.

Ziva laughed, lightly tapping his cheek. She sat up, smoothed back his hair from his warm forehead, and steadfastly held his focus, knowing this was not over. She knew him too well, knew his evasive tactics. And he tried, he really tried to smile at her, to continue the lightness of spirit, but how heavy was his load. So when she smiled at him, when her head cocked to the side and told him without words that she knew, she knew, his chest bucked with tears. The sting from his incision, the ache from his deep fear crackled through him. He whispered his pain to her, and kept his eyes glued to her powerful focus. Ziva leaned forward, framing his face with her hands, a steel rod of affection and trust binding them. She peered into his red-rimmed eyes, and unequivocally told him, "I will never forget you, Tony. This is an impossibility. Now and for the rest of my life, you will always be in my heart. Ata hakhaver hakhi tov sheli."

They had known each other for years, had fought, had argued, had played together, had despaired together. He had saved her when she didn't think she was worth saving, and she had buoyed him when he felt he was drowning. In this quiet evening, when the world outside dampened lights and fell into a hush, two friends shared the intimacy of mortality. And when the pain strangled his voice, she read his lips, and assured him that, "Yes, I know you are scared. I am, too."

He wept until his body could no longer, until his eyes closed of their own accord. Still, she watched him, stroking his brow, humming songs from her childhood. When at last his face went lax in slumber, Ziva kissed his cheek. She moved from the bed and padded to the corner of the room, where she covered herself with the velvet wrap, and kept vigil over him through the night.

*****


	12. Chapter 12

I bet you thought I'd disappeared. A heartfelt apology for having taken so long to update, and an even greater appreciation for all of you who sent me notes to catch up on my family's "thing." My husband is recovering, much too slowly in his opinion. And although we don't have the pathology back yet, we're not borrowing trouble. Life goes on. Therein lies most of the reason for my disappearance—real life was getting a little too close to all the med-speak I've been conjuring in this story. That being said, I have a whole new set of sensory details to use. Oi…

Thank you for sticking with this story. The school year is over, and I have some time to end the piece. Oh, and, yes, Freak the Younger and Lexie—you're in this one. Janie—you're in the next one.

One last detail—I am nowhere near being techno savvy, so any plot holes you may see in my cyber crime story, keep them to yourself. I'm doin' the best I can…

On with the show…

"Hey, Duck," Gibbs said, breezing into the morgue.

Ducky looked up from the exposed chest cavity of his latest patient, scalpel in hand. "Afternoon, Jethro."

"What do ya got for me on the Chen case?"

Ducky lowered his instrument, paused and asked, "Did I call you? I don't recall."

"Nope," Gibbs said, settling in next to the adjacent, vacant bed, his arms coiled over his chest. "Just thought you'd have something after a couple days."

"Actually," the doctor said, pushing away from the eviscerated corpse, "I did make one startling, albeit trivial, observation." He removed his face shield and placed it on the exam table, and padded over toward the light boxes.

Jethro joined the man at the panel of lights and a table strewn with specimen jars. "An observation that might help me solve this case?"

"Unfortunately, no. All of my findings point to cause of death, which we already know, and to the fascinating ecosystem that is the Dismal Swamp. It is this very ecosystem that has contributed rather spectacularly to Mr. Chen's state of decomposition." Ducky picked up a Petri dish and removed its meager content with a pair of tweezers. "Behold Dreissena polymorpha," he said, rotating the fingernail-sized shell, "otherwise known as the common zebra mussel. I found it attached to the base of his skull. And where there's one zebra mussel, there are thousands, tens of thousands. A Ms. Ortman from the DNR was highly interested in my finding and believes this is the first specimen to be found in the Dismal Swamp."

"What's it got to do with my case?"

Ducky stared at the mollusk, and said, "Nothing. But anyone with even a pedestrian knowledge of the Great Lakes can tell the story of how this alien creature has—"

"Ducky. Chen."

"Right." Ducky placed the bivalve back into its Petri dish and flipped the lights on the X-Ray panel. "Perhaps this will be more pertinent, though I suspect of slightly less consequence."

"Then why—"

"Humor me, Jethro." Ducky slid two X-rays onto the light panel, picked up a magnifying lens and motioned to Gibbs to lean in. "See these fractures in his upper and lower teeth? They are the same on the other side of the jaw. Now, if you'll look at this set of images," he said, switching over to a smaller group of X-rays. "These were taken by Mr. Chen's dentist not two weeks before Justin's disappearance. You will notice the complete lack of fissures and fractures." Jethro squinted at the images, then back to the first set.

"Yeah? So?"

"So, those types of stress fractures only occur in one way—by clamping down hard on an object. Chen was given something to…bear down on in order to withstand what would have to have been an excruciating ordeal. Of course, natural curiosity led me next to examine his vocal folds, miraculously spared during the decapitation." Ducky tossed up a photograph taken from a bronchoscopic instrument, slightly overexposed, of pink tissue. "Pristine. No ruptures, no tears."

"So he's ready to sing. What's the point?"

"Well, the point, Jethro, is…how does a man withstand such horrendous acts without crying out in pain?"

"I don't know."

"Nor do I."

Jethro pulled back from the images and shifted his focus to the older man. "How does this help me?"

"It doesn't," Ducky stated.

"Then, why did—"

"I told you when you first asked that I had nothing of substance to offer, but," Ducky continued, drawing on Gibbs' last moments of attention, "I suppose it speaks to the kind of person Justin Chen must have been, to have endured this type of torture. And to have done it quietly. Who was he trying to protect? What…secrets went with him to his grave?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out, Duck," Gibbs said, turning to leave the morgue.

"It's a terrible thing, having to die alone, without the comfort of one's family."

Gibbs stopped. Took a deep breath. Turned back to Ducky. He began to speak, to contradict Ducky, to trump the doctor's final testimony. Gibbs had nothing. He shook his head and put the morgue and Ducky's somehow unsettling comment behind him.

What was it, exactly, that bristled him so? What about Ducky's estimation of Chen's final moments pierced something deep inside him? Taking the steps two at a time, Gibbs found himself slowing, finally coming to a dead stop at the top stoop. He reached for the handrail, the other hand anchored to his hip. _The comfort of one's family…_

Second-guessing a decision was a waste of time, Gibbs had always thought. You make a decision; you stand by it. No room for regretting an action.

But, had he been wrong to tell Tony his father needed to be told? Had Gibbs done more harm than good? Had he loosened Tony's already tenuous hold on hope with reason to doubt?

If Tony had been Gibbs' son, he would walk across crushed glass to get to him. Hell, Gibbs thought, if he'd been his son, he'd walk across a continent of glass. That's what a father does. They make it happen so a child is never alone.

However, Tony wasn't his son. And Tony wasn't a child scared in the night.

But he wasn't alone, either. If that was the impetus of distress he might have planted in Tony, Gibbs was going to extricate it, but fast.

"Did you know Tony gives an annual contribution to Ohio State University Alumni Fun?" Tim asked, peering into a laptop screen, one hand holding open a used checkbook, its edges curled and blunted. "He's also spending way too much on phone charges."

"Isn't there something about the power of attorney-slash-friend confidentiality clause that, ya know, precludes you from telling me these things?" Abby asked. She popped the top off an old jar of pickles, winced at the pungent odor, poured the limp gerkins and occluded liquid down the sink, and rinsed out the jar.

"I don't think that's how it works, Abs," Tim said. He flipped to the next carbon-copied slip, and squinted. "Okay, I can't make out what the hell… Abs, you're the expert: What does this say?"

"McGee…" she sighed, frustrated by the man's inability to decipher Tony's handwriting. For the first two weeks of Tim's decision to computerize all of Tony's back finances, whenever a check came up that was illegible, Tim would take a picture and send it to Abby. It was decided that, in light of possible cyber crimes going on inside the agency, that Abby would accompany Tim to Tony's apartment while McGee labored over the years and years of uncataloged records. Abby steadfastly believed two things: this was an exercise in futility—there was no chance that Tony would ever continue such meticulous records once he resumed his normal life—and, two, Tim needed to do this for himself, more than for Tony, knowing full well that it was probably an exercise in futility.

"Okay, let me take a look," she said, leaning over the checkbook. It was clear as day to Abby, so she spun around in frustration, and over her shoulder tossed back, "Our Lady of the Little Flower. Fifty dollars. Charitable donation."

Tim clamped shut his mouth, quieted by the supplied answer to question he had been poised to ask. His head bobbing, he keyed in the information, and Abby resumed cleaning out Tony's refrigerator.

This was their routine—Tim cleaned up Tony's finances, and Abby deep-cleaned Tony's apartment, vacuuming out vents, dusting closet shelves, discarding cold medicines past their expiration dates. She did so with one eye closed, praying she wouldn't chance upon any hidden cache of personal items that might expose nuances into Tony's psyche that she just didn't want to know. Thankfully, all she really had come to know was Tony tended to buy off-brand decongestants rather than the more expensive name brands.

From the refrigerator alone, she had filled three bags with recyclables—two with glass, one with metal, and was onto her second bag of refuse when she stopped and took a quick assessment of everything she had tossed, all expired, some with mold encrusted eating into the container, an assortment of cheeses, slices of pizza unceremoniously thrown into freezer bags, cellophane bags, one after another, with only the heel of the bread loaf left.

"I'm going to have to buy Tony a cookbook," she said, taking in the mess.

"What's that?" Tim asked from the dining room table, strewn with financial records.

"Nothing," she answered back, winching closed the bags. "I'm taking out these bags." Hooking all the bags in her hands, Abby made her way out of the apartment, into the hall and through the double doors. Bottles clanged against one another, and the cumbersome load made walking awkward. By the time she reached the front doors, her hands ached. She scrambled out to the apartment's dumpster, then to Tim's car, tossed the recyclables into the trunk, and walked back to the apartment stoop, rubbing her burning fingers.

Bounding up the steps two at a time, Abby paused at the top, took a deep breath, and reached for the door. A satiny sheen of perspiration dappled her brow. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, and promised herself to get a little more exercise. Running up twelve steps shouldn't be so tiring, she thought.

Abby turned and counted the steps again. Twelve steps.

Twelve steps. One for each week Tony had been in the hospital. One for each staple clamped down the front of his chest—she had counted them. Twelve steps that she had run up, her pigtails swinging, her arms pumping. Twelve steps.

"How's Tony going to make it up twelve steps?"

At times, the weight of it all was too much. It rolled over her, curling her shoulders, augering out her gut. It brought her knees to fold and her hands to hide her face.

Abby slumped down on the top stoop and wept. Worn down, empty, she clung to the handrail and simply allowed the tears to come. People passing in the streets stared at her, but kept walking.

"Hey, Abs?" Tim said, sidling up beside her. He wrapped his arm across her shoulder and offered her a tissue. "What happened?"

Abby pressed the tissue into her eyes and shook her head. Words would have to wait. So, Tim rubbed her shoulder, looked out over the street in front, and simply gave her time. "Sometimes it just gets to you, right?" he said, and she nodded. "I know." And he did. It was unfathomable to think about it, but there were times when it occurred to Tim that Tony may not be there for the next round of awards, and then who would collect Gibbs' meritorious service medal? That Tony may not be around to see the Chen case solved, or even the next season. There were times when the enormity of Tony's illness pressed upon him like a monstrous wind out of some strange corner, toppling him. So he knew how Abby was feeling, all too well.

"It's just…" Abby began, her voice scratchy and tremulous, "I was running up the stairs, and… There's no way Tony will be able to run…" She scraped her empty hand across her eyes, sore from tears, and a sob caught in her throat. "How's he gonna come home if he…can't…"

"Well, first off, he'll go to cardiac rehab right after the transplant. Remember Ducky told us about that?" Tim said, hoping to ameliorate her fear. "By the time he's ready to come home, he'll be stronger."

"But," she said, motioning toward the concrete set of steps, "even I got tired coming up those steps. How's Tony—"

"Okay, well," Tim said, nodding, ready to fix this, "then he'll stay with Ducky. Zero elevation entrance. Besides, Abby, you ran up those steps. I'd get tired, too."

"But, it's not like we can book Ducky's house out like that," she reminded him.

"True," he said, beginning to fully understand the problem. But, like his mother had always told him, cross bridges when you get to them, not before. "Look, let's just get him healthy, and then we'll figure out how he's going to get up these stairs. Hell, I'll carry him up if I have to."

"Or, maybe, we could install one of those…those chairs that ratchet up the side of the stairwell," Abby said, dabbing at her eyes.

"Yeah, I'm sure his neighbors would love that."

"Could we, ya know, ask his super if we can switch his apartment with one of the lower-level places?" she asked.

"Then Tony have a second heart attack, but not before killing us first," he said. "Number one, you know as well as I do that those lower-level apartments are glorified crawl spaces, and number two, the crime rate rises exponentially in apartments that don't have the protection of a locked front entrance."

"You'd really carry him?" Abby asked, glancing at Tim through wet eyes.

"You bet. Besides, he's lost a bunch of weight. I think I could take him," Tim said.

"Nice. Way to pick a fight with a cardiac patient, McGee," she said, beginning to find her smile once again. Suddenly, it occurred to her what Tim had said earlier. She straightened, peered closely into Tim's eyes, and said, "How did you know I ran up the steps?"

Tim blinked, his mouth agape with surprise. "Uh, um… I saw you from the dining room. You took out the bottles, put them in my car, and then ran up the steps."

Abby's attention diverted to Tony's first-floor window, and she quickly deduced that none of this was plausible. "McGee, unless there's some weird gravitational vortex in Tony's apartment wherein light waves are bent, allowing you to see around corners, there's no way you saw me from that table." With that, Abby blew her nose, took a deep breath, and found herself calming down. "So, which is it? A complete dismissal of geometric configurations, or are you spying on me?"

Tim smiled, relieved that Abby was able to extricate herself from her grief. He drew her in closer, and said, "I wasn't exactly spying on you, but I was watching. Does that bother you?"

Resting her hands on her knees, fingers knotted around the used tissue, and her head on Tim's shoulder, Abby thought about it. "Is this something you do often?"

Brushing errant strands of hair from her face, Tim said, "Not often, but sometimes."

"Okay," she said, lacing her fingers through his. She had appreciated the momentary shift in topics, but the underlying sorrow that had brought her to this place remained, and tears began again, quieter, slower. "I miss Tony so much."

"I know. Me, too."

"Sometimes it scares me to think that he may not—"

"I know, Abs."

She disentangled her fingers, brushed away her tears, and hid her face in Tim's solid shoulder.

"What are we gonna do, Tim?"

"I don't know, Abs. We'll think of something," he whispered, anchoring his arms around her, cloaking her with his mutual understanding of the depths of their shared pain.

With few leads to go by, and with even less motivation to be desirous of a new lead, Ziva had called Gibbs and told him she was taking a few days off. She didn't ask for the days, and he didn't bristle at her declaration. Nor did he ask why she was going to be absent. He knew. Even so, had she asked, Ziva would have told him that her time was better spent someplace other than the naval base.

That someplace was the end of room 412, atop the daybed, with her legs curled under her.

The LVAD, which they had hoped would be the salvation the doctors advertised it to be, didn't seem to be living up to its reputation, at least not in Tony's chest. They weren't sure if it was a complication from the surgery, if it was some physiological incompatibility, some strange, rare allergic reaction to titanium, what. All they knew was Tony was growing weaker.

All Ziva knew was he was growing quieter.

So they observed the silence together. All small talk that might otherwise fill the void was depleted; any morsel of information about the case or the job, pertinent or otherwise, had previously been explored. Sick of asking how he felt, tired of being asked, Ziva and Tony hunkered down against the quiet, and simply let each second, each minute, each protracted hour trickle away.

From her perch in the corner of the room, Ziva watched him stare out at a world that seemed to move in a different orbit than his. Occasionally, when his slack lips had gone motionless for extended periods, when his eyes seemed dry, fixed, with no indication of perception, she would whisper his name, or clear her throat, anything, just to hope for a response, just to breathe once again in the assurance that, yes, he was still there.

She wasn't at all sure what she'd do if one day there were no response, no quick, lethargic blink, no sight of his Adam's apple rising and falling, however slowly, in his throat. When that cold possibility of mortality did slither into her thoughts, unbidden and unwelcome, she crushed shut her mind, slicked back her hair with the palms of her shaking hands, and refused its further entry.

Sometimes, even that didn't work.

Nurses and doctors rotated in and out, taking vitals, changing IV bags, his surgical dressings. Ziva always looked away, offering Tony and the nurses a modicum of discretion. Often curiosity ruled her eyes, and they would fall onto his incision, pink and raised, puckered and long. That didn't bother her. Nor did the obscene image of a hose jutting from the side of his chest, globules of coagulated blood coating the inner walls of the clear, plastic tube.

No, it wasn't the precise line of the surgeon's scalpel that caused her stomach to twist and her limbs to go numb. It was where some nameless orderly had taken a razor and shaved Tony's chest. It was that bare chest, lacking the deep sprawl of dark, curly hair and lacking its normal robust fullness that tore at her.

But he didn't need to know that, nor would she even think of mentioning it. Besides, he would consider it some sort of sexual attraction, some acceptance on her part of the fact that he was DiNozzo, and what woman can resist a DiNozzo? It wasn't that. Well, not much. Still, at times when he lay motionless, when the unsnapped edges of the limp hospital gown fell open across his pitiful chest, she'd find herself staring, missing the soft expanse of hair. Her mind would wander to the times when she'd enjoyed the contrast of silken hair and warm skin. How his chest rose and fell under her hand. How her fingers would twirl and twist in the—

"Ziva."

Startled, Ziva's attention cracked, and her eyes flew to the door. "Gibbs. I wasn't expecting you."

"No, I can see that," he said, stepping into the room, pausing just before the privacy curtain. Ziva uncoiled her legs and rose to meet him, stretching her tight neck on the way. "You look tired, Ziva."

"I'm fine," she said, keeping her voice low.

Gibbs eyed Tony and hooked a hand onto Ziva's shoulder, offering a little comfort, a little show of empathy. "How's he doing?"

"He has had a difficult day," she told Gibbs, glancing at their beleaguered friend, at the tray of soft foods that had gone untouched.

"I need to talk to him."

Ziva's brow wrinkled. She didn't relish refusing Gibbs. "I do not mean to discourage you, but I don't think he's much up for a conversation."

Gibbs slid back the curtain, put aside Ziva's warning, and stepped into the room. "He doesn't need to talk."

And so she kept her distance, allowing Gibbs the space to approach Tony. She wrapped her arms across her chest, pinned one shoulder into the wall, and simply observed the two men.

Gibbs leaned over Tony's bed, forearms pressed into the bedrails, and called out his name.

Tony swallowed, let his attention drift toward the voice, and said, "Hey, Boss."

Leaning closer toward Tony, Gibbs softened his voice. Ziva could not hear Gibbs' words, and she could not see his face, so she kept her focus on Tony, on his pensive features. All the while she didn't breathe. Somehow she knew these were hard words, powerful words, compassionate words, words full of indictment and ridiculous demands, words between men who were more than colleagues, and that Tony, so needful of hope, would cling to them.

So she remained still, silent, and grieved while taking in the slight knotting of Tony's brow, at his chapped lips agreeing with something Gibbs had said. At Tony's eyes, so dark, so tired, pinching shut for a moment, his lips pressed together, his chin trembling. At his chest quavering under the thin gown. At his weak hand clutching the blanket.

"Hey, look at me," she heard Gibbs whisper, and Tony did as he was told, opening red-rimmed eyes. She watched Gibbs' head nod, then shake, his hands punctuating these unheard words. And Tony listened, peering into Gibbs eyes, clutching onto every word as if they were molecules of oxygen in a vacuum. She need not hear the words; she'd heard them before. They were words that poured steel back into your spine, but not before dissolving any pretense of false bravado.

She watched Tony mouth the words "How?" and "No," and with each, her heart supplied a possible, sorrowful question. She touched her fingers to her lips and looked away. She shouldn't be seeing this. This was a private sorrow, this conversation, and to bear witness to it felt like a sort of defilement of the sanctity. Now and again, tones of Gibbs' voice floated above the intimate conversation, tones of incredulity, frustration, of deep and abiding affection, and Tony's fragile spirit, his thin health reacted to it all. Ziva's heart clenched.

"And Ziva," Gibbs said, turning to point at her, and her eyes flew to his. Just as suddenly, Gibbs' focus returned to Tony, and he said, "And me. And you know that!" When she saw how Tony clung to Gibbs' intense gaze, and she saw the determination in Tony's eyes, she ground her teeth together, her jaws aching from the refusal to let her careening emotions get the better of her.

Then, with one more thought, Gibbs reached down and gave Tony's hand a squeeze, and Tony whispered "I gotcha, Boss" back to Gibbs. Gibbs straightened, patted Tony's hand, reached out and chucked his fingers under Tony's chin. Ziva stepped back toward the door and hoped Gibbs would pass by without noticing her decided lack of tenacity.

"Get some sleep," were his final words to Tony, and Tony closed his eyes, nodded. Gibbs turned from the bed, moved to leave, but stopped next to Ziva, pressed tight to the wall. Those eyes, she thought, as he scrutinized her. So full of humanity. So full of understanding. So full of insight that she had to look away, her skin pricking with discomfort and shame that those eyes could so easily open her soul. He laid a quiet, soft hand on her cheek, kissed her temple, and whispered warm words into her ear. "You get some sleep, too."

She nodded, tried for an "Mh-hhm," but it stuck in her constricted throat.

Then he was gone.

A woman should be so strong as to not let such situations be her undoing. She washed over her flushed cheeks with her cool hands, and breathed. This was no time to indulge in such foolishness, she told herself. She gathered all her hair at the base of her neck and twisted it into a loose knot. Center. Control. Focus. Tony would need her now. He would need her strength, her solidity. _Stop it_, she scolded herself. _Control. Calm down now…_

One more breath. One more swipe of her hands across her hot face. She padded toward Tony's bed, and took Gibbs' place.

"Tony?"

Tony's hand lifted from the bed, and with one quick swipe, she knew not to ask. With his eyes screwed shut, with his chin set stolidly in place, with the quick bob of his Adam's apple, she knew. She touched his arm, and felt it vibrate. "All right," she whispered. He nodded to her, and turned away, a fistful of blanket in his shaking hand.

Ziva moved to the window and looked out into the garish, glaring light, and hoped Tony would not see her begin to crumble.

"They here yet?" Gibbs asked, rounding the corner into the bullpen, two cups of coffee firm in his grip.

Ziva sat up straight in her chair, and said, "No. Not yet." Gibbs sat on cup in front of her, and she thanked him. Even by Gibbs' standards, this was an early morning.

They had each received the call at 3:43 AM, well before the sun had risen on that Tuesday morning. It was made via conference call, and it reached Gibbs in his house and Ziva at the hospital. But the excitement in Tim's voice, intermittently interrupted by Abby's fever-pitch explanations, was enough to bring them all together in the darkened, pre-dawn room.

However, before the two technophiles bustled into the room, Ziva felt it was time to speak to Gibbs. To explain her absence. To ask for forgiveness. She hardly knew how to begin. She cleared her throat, and decided that the best course of action was to begin speaking. Didn't matter which words. Her intentions would find their way into the conversation. "Gibbs," she said, a mediocre beginning.

"They say when they're gonna be here?" he asked, firing up his computer.

"No. Gibbs, I wanted to tell you why I've been gone," she said, and it surprised her how easy it had been. Gibbs stopped futzing with his computer, rested his arm on his desk, and simply allowed her time to speak. "I, uh, I… With Tony, it is never clear how…" _So much for easy_, she mused. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, sipped at her coffee, and began again. "I am his partner, and as such, I felt it my duty…" Ziva winced, closed one eye, and tried again, and when she spoke once more, her words tumbled from her lips. "He is very ill, yes? And he should not be alone. No one in that condition should ever be alone, and so I thought, perhaps rashly, I realize, that if I could be there for him, with him, that maybe… And then again, maybe he didn't need me to be there at all. The point is, Gibbs—"

"It's a Botnet," came the chorus of Abby and Tim.

Gibbs and Ziva stared at them, stunned at first that they had even entered the room. Obviously more awake than their counterparts, the two went on, stepping over each other to report their findings.

"Boss, when we finally got to looking through all the data on that thumb drive from Chen's apartment," Tim began, standing directly in front of Gibbs' desk, "we realized it was, in fact, all NCIS data, most if not all of it procedural garbage."

"Totally boring, 'You'll be out on your keister for non-compliance' sorts of stuff," Abby interjected, and then stopped. "Not that being non-compliant is crap, Gibbs."

"Anyhow, we knew going in we were going to find that kind of information. What we didn't know, what we needed to find out was who was looking for the information."

"Yeah, but before we get to that part, let me just tell you something we found out about Justin," Abby said, activating the display on the opposite wall. Ledgers of data and code streamed across the screen. "Our friend, may he rest in…well, pieces… Anyhow, Justin was a bad guy. I mean, he was bad because he got himself involved with the real bad guys, but when he realized what he was doing was wrong, he tried to stop it."

"And by trying to stop it, we mean he tried to divert the flow of information," Tim said, taking over. A different screen, a stationary one, blew onto the display. Gibbs squinted at the information; Ziva rose from her chair and joined Abby and Tim in the center of the room. "This is data from every NCIS computer, worldwide."

"But, it's the _type_ of data that makes it really interesting," Abby said, emphasizing her happy words with both hands. "This, my friends, is spam."

"Spam?" Gibbs asked, incredulously.

"Yes, Boss," Tim said. "Justin allowed the controlling server to access only the folders containing the spam, and sometimes the deleted, innocuous messages that everyone throws out with the trash."

"Like those concerning 'non-compliance,'" Abby said, flinching as she said it. Gibbs rolled his eyes, and continued to listen.

"But," Ziva said, "certainly some sensitive information was passed along before Chen's change of heart, no?"

Tim nodded, carefully choosing his words. "Well, yes and no. We've gone back to when this Bot program was installed, and we think a few items might have passed through, but we've catalogued all that information and are going to present it to the director as soon as he gets in."

"Gibbs!" Abby cried.

"What, Abs?" he said back, having not had near enough caffeine to deal with Abby's excitement.

"Ask me why I'm so happy?" Gibbs didn't ask. He simply sipped from his coffee, raised his eyebrows, and stared at her. "Okay, I'll tell you. We, Tim and I, went down the rabbit hole!"

"Well, it's less of a rabbit hole than a backdoor," Tim countered.

"Yes, but, my little McMadhatter," Abby said, smiling broadly, "if we hadn't fallen into the hole, we wouldn't know who our Cheshire Cat is."

"Yes, but, the allusion to Alice's adventures isn't appropriate for this scenario," Tim tried to tell her, which grated against Gibbs' last nerve, so he let out a shrill whistle.

"Hey, Tweedledum, Tweedledee," he said, once he received their attention, "bottom line me!"

"Right, Boss," Tim said, switching the slide on the display. "About nine o'clock last night, Abby and I got to thinking that maybe these guys aren't as clever as they think they are, and that maybe, just maybe, one of them had left open an exploitable backdoor."

"Bill Gates should really get a medal for this one, Gibbs," Abby said. "See, Microsoft did us a gargantuan favor by enabling each computer that uses his software, which, as you know, is, like, everyone, with a simple protocol called SNMP."

"Simple Network Management Protocol," Tim furnished.

"Right, so, with this, you can look inside any computer remotely, and it's totally passive, and it's not like having to go through the whole hacking thing," she said.

"It's like this, Gibbs: if you have a bunch of computers all connected to one main tether, or a Bot, then you can go through that same hole to find out who originated the attack."

"And you've done that?"

Abby and Tim smiled at each other. Tim continued, "Once we figured out our plan, we came back to the agency, and—"

"With the director's permission," Abby said.

"We shut down the mainframe for five minutes and remotely accessed Chen's computer," Tim said, pride fortifying his words.

Ziva closed her eyes, confused. "Wait. If you shut down the mainframe…"

"Trust me," Abby said, touching Ziva's arm. "Don't ask. Okay, so, you know how bees have eyes that see multiple images at once? That's how Timmy's brain works when he's in cyberville."

"I trust you," Ziva said, backing away from the need for an explanation.

"Anyhow," Tim said, "once we were able to find the hole in Justin's computer, we simply tracked it to the backdoor of the controlling server, or servers, and hoped at least one of them had that SNMP turned on and enabled. So, we found our backdoors, scanned them all, and sure enough, we found our guy, or guys, actually. See, it takes a whole squadron of computers to link up with a—"

"Get to the point, McTMI!" Abby boomed. When all eyes turned to her, she backed down, and said, "I really miss Tony."

"So, the point is this—we found the controller server, and when we started mucking around, there they were," Tim told them.

Gibbs waited for the rest of the explanation, but when none was forthcoming, he asked, "Who?"

"The Chinese. All chatting with each other in Chinese," he said.

"I didn't know you spoke Chinese, Tim," Ziva said.

"Um, well, I don't," he said, pulling up a new screen capture of scrolling banter, all in Chinese. "But all we had to do was cut and paste it into a Google search, and—"

"Apparently, the lingua franca of bad guys is profanity," Abby said, spinning to face Gibbs, who was focused on the screen.

"So," Tim said, "now, we go in, pretending to be one of them."

"Which is what we did, but not before turning the mainframe back on," Abby added.

"We actually took thirteen minutes," Tim told them, embarrassed by the admission. "Oh, and we patched up the hole in our system. No more Bots."

"Go on," Gibbs prodded them.

Tim clicked the remote, and a new screen appeared. "Okay, so we just started chatting with them."

"We've routed our computer through eight different national servers to get them off the scent, as it were," Abby said.

"We enlisted Agent Swinney," Tim said.

"Whose mother is from Uzebekistan."

"And who speaks fluent Russian, and she's chatting them up, trying to gain their confidence and any information we can garner, even as we speak."

All four stared at the screen, at the running conversation happening between an NCIS agent and some anonymous pirate in China.

"And we think we may have a lead already," Tim said.

"But, here's where it gets a little wonky," Abby supplied.

"Wonky?" Gibbs said.

"Yeah, we think our guy is the same guy Abby and Ziva found on the Dismal Swamp tapes," Tim said.

"I mean, if it's not, that's some kind of major coincidence," Abby said.

"I don't believe in coincidences," Gibbs said.

"I'm not inclined to think so either," Tim said. "The thing is if this really is our guy, then we've got trouble."

"Right here in River City?" Ziva, smiling, added, which garnered the stares from her peers. "It's from a movie, 'The Music Man,' yes?" When they continued to stare, Ziva "What? I watched it with Tony. He said it was part of Americana."

"Are you done, Marion?" Gibbs asked, diminishing Ziva with a look.

"So, what I was saying," Tim continued, "was if this is our guy, he's fairly well hooked-up."

"His name is Liu Xing Xio," Abby told them, accessing a picture of the young man from the archives. "Very low-level sort of bad guy, with a daddy who is considerably high-level."

"Right out of Beijing, Boss."

Gibbs took in the photo of the smirking young Chinese man. Taking a sip of coffee, Gibbs knew what his next move must be.

"The thing is, Boss, his father doesn't seem to be on our watch list."

"Nope, I bet he's not," Gibbs said. "Fathers and sons don't always follow the same path." Gibbs clapped Tim on the shoulder, and said, "That's good work, McGee."

"Thanks, Boss."

Turning to Abby, Gibbs kissed her temple, and told her, "That's why you're my favorite."

"Awww, thanks, Gibbs," Abby said, beeming.

Tim asked, "So, should we let Agent Swinney continue their conversation?"

"Oh, yeah." Gibbs picked up his gun, his badge, and clipped on his cell phone.

"What's next?" Ziva asked.

Straightening his collar, Gibbs said, "I thought I'd go have breakfast with my old friend Tobias Fornell."

"That sounds like a plan," Ziva said, smiling.

"Glad you approve." He began to stroll out of the common area, but paused next to Ziva, close enough so only she could hear his whispered words. "And you…"

"Yes, Gibbs," she said, drawing back to be able to see him more clearly.

"I know why you were there. No need to explain," he said, tapping her wrist, a quick gesture of solidarity. Ziva lowered her eyes, embarrassed that Gibbs knew her so well.

"So, Boss?" Tim said, his hand raised, as if Gibbs might call on him.

Gibbs turned to find out what more Tim wanted, but was stopped by the vibration of his cell phone. He held up a finger to Tim, flipped open the cell, and said, "Yeah, Gibbs."

They were used to their boss receiving phone calls on a continuous basis, but somehow the three of them, Tim, Abby and Ziva, knew this was not an agency-based message. It was in the way Gibbs' eyes widened; it was in the way his face snapped up to pelt them with his stare. It was in his silence. The only thing they didn't know, the only thing they desperately needed to know was this—was Tony alive?

"Got it, Ducky," Gibbs said, never taking his eyes off them, nor they off him. "We're on our way." With a snap, the call was over, and Gibbs found himself unable to speak.

"What is it?" Ziva asked, coming to step before him.

Gibbs licked his dry lips, lines etching his forehead and around his pinched eyes. "It's time." The three searched each other's eyes for meaning. None breathed. Finally, Gibbs tossed his cup into the trash, spun away from them, toward the elevator, and called back, "Grab whatever you need. We got a heart in transit. Let's move."

They scrambled, empty handed, behind Gibbs, and clogged the elevator doors with their bodies. Gibbs shouldered through the mass, and one by one, each followed. One by one, each eyed the other. The elevator doors closed on the silent group.


	13. Chapter 13

How is it I had never seen "Dead Man Walking" before this weekend? How does that happen? Anyhow, here's the latest. As always, thank you for all the kindness, the time you've taken reading and waiting for this story, and the stories of your lives. We all should be so gentle with each other.

Like birds on a wire chirping to each other, the monitors in the adjoining bays faintly beeped on down the line, a sound Tony had become accustomed to. He'd been brought down to this pre-op staging area more times than he cared to remember, and the regimen was always the same—new lines, vitals, one person after another checking his ID bracelet. He had often joked with the staff that he was pretty sure he could start his own IV. The anesthesiologist would check in, barely taking the time to look at him, and other members of the surgical staff. They'd all say the same—"Okay, well, we'll get you going here in just a minute"—and then Tony would wait in his bay while just a minute turned into fifteen, then thirty, then an hour.

Tony had asked himself many times over the last few months how he thought he'd feel once the doctors showed up to tell him a heart had been found. In his mind they'd come in the middle of the day, after he'd watched Jerry Springer. They'd come en masse, surround his bed, and share the exciting news. An extraordinary event amidst the ordinary business of living.

"It's on its way, Anthony," Doctor Tanner would say, "and we couldn't be happier." Nurses would cry; orderlies would give him the thumbs up as they wheeled him from his room.

But, that didn't happen. Twice before they had told him they thought a heart had been found. Twice before something hadn't been right-cross matching must be precise, they told him. So, when Dorothy woke him up around 3:50 AM, it kind of pissed Tony off. He was sleeping better than he had in weeks, for whatever reason, and he wanted to remain asleep.

"Big day, Tony," she had said, hustling around his bed, tucking in his bedding, unplugging the bed from the wall, attaching his IVs to the bed poles.

"You said...that the...last...time," Tony reminded her, turning his head away.

"Well, you know what I told you," she continued, lowering his bed, "being on the waiting list is like fishing-sometimes you snag a tire, and sometimes you snag a salmon."

"You're not...from D.C... are you?"

Dorothy laughed, pushed his bed away from the wall, and said, "I think we have a salmon, Tony. You wouldn't want to sleep through it, would ya?"

"I will…anyhow, right?" he said back.

Coming to a stop next to his bed, ceasing all the preparations that were necessary to move Tony down to pre-op, Dorothy asked, "You want me to call Ducky, or...or Jethro? Maybe Ziva?"

That's when moment it hit him. The other two times were merely practice runs, and neither had included calls to those on his emergency contact list. Tony squinted and looked at the clock. A salmon, indeed. "This is...it?"

"This is it."

He had thought that when the day did finally arrive, he'd be more panicked. Maybe more excited. More…unprepared. He thought he'd reach for his phone list, reach for his faith, something.

What he found was…acceptance. His body ached; his spirit was depleted. He was tired, so tired, and whatever needed to be done, just let it be done. Yes, he had considered death, but death had often seemed to be hunkered down in the adjoining room, waiting for the right moment to swoop in.

Rather than give in to the constant presence of death, Tony often told it to stay the hell away, you son of a bitch.

He had confidence that his surgeons felt the same way.

"Tony, who should I call?"

"Ducky," he finally said, and then changed his mind. "No. I'll...call him. Can you..."

Dorothy opened the drawer next to Tony's bed, fished out his cell phone, and handed it to him. Tony flipped it open, which tired him out, found Ducky's number and tried to bring the phone to his ear. Dorothy, seeing his distress, held it in place for him.

After three rings, Ducky's groggy voice came over the line.

"Hey, Ducky," Tony said, trying to inject his voice with energy. After all, it was four in the morning. He didn't want to frighten the man, and receiving phone calls before business hours rarely turned out to be a good thing.

"Anthony, are you all right?"

Tony could picture the older man bolting up into a seated position in his bed. He also pictured him wearing pajamas with a bow tie. "Yeah. They, uh...They think...they have a...heart."

"I'm on my way," was all Ducky said before he hung up the phone, which was startling to Tony. He was used to Gibbs being that terse, but Ducky?

"He hung up...on me," Tony told Dorothy, who shut the phone.

"You want to call Jethro?"

"Nah. Ducky'll take...care of it."

"Then let's go get a new heart."

Once Dorothy had delivered Tony to pre-op, it came down to a matter of waiting for all the tumblers in the lock to synch up. There was a whole grocery list of things that needed to be done, most of which happened beyond Tony's awareness or understanding. The nursing staff in pre-op left the harsh overhead lights off in case Tony wanted to sleep, which was highly unlikely, even though his eyes were heavy with fatigue. He had a moment to carry on an inner dialogue about how it was best to wait for surgery alone. It was important to be quiet and have those deep thoughts. Life was about to change, possibly end, and there should be a moment of contemplation about a man's life. The other voice in the silent dialogue asked when he had ever had a deeper thought than "Do these pants make my ass look fat?"

Doctor Tanner, his surgeon, a tall man wearing surgical scrubs and expensive shoes, stopped in. With his hands anchored to his hips, his doctor had told Tony that they were still cross-matching the donor heart, but that all indications looked great. And then he asked if Tony was ready. Tony's first inclination was to go with something charming and sarcastic, something that reeked of cockiness. But fatigue overruled bluster, and Tony just went with, "Yeah. Oh, yeah." Moments later, his cardio-thoracic surgeon with the four-hundred dollar Cole Haan's was gone.

"Mister…uh, DiNozzo?" came a voice, followed by the curtain scraping open along its ball-bearing track.

"Yeah," Tony said, but his voice hadn't quite caught. Anymore, his voice sounded like a seventy-year-old man to his own ears. So, he cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah, that's…me."

A young man, mid-twenties with hundreds of dollars worth of ink on his arms and neck, closed the curtain behind him and placed his tray down on the bedside table. "I'm here to shave you."

Just one more pre-op requirement, Tony knew, but he hated the procedure, nonetheless. "Yeah, go ahead. Do…what ya…gotta do."

The young man unsnapped Tony's gown at the shoulders, slid it over his chest, and left him exposed to the cool room. He pulled on a pair of gloves, picked up the mini-shaver, and began the process.

Tony kept his focus on the ceiling, on the panel of fluorescent lights, like he always did in these situations. The buzzing of the clippers against his skin didn't necessarily bother him, nor did the drone of the blade through the closely shorn chest hair. He wasn't sure what exactly it was, but it had something to do with his lack of control over it all. The fact that a stranger—a man, at that—was manipulating his limbs, picking up his arm to reach the sides of his chest with the implement, pulling his skin taut to better facilitate the process. It was how intimate it felt, how wrong to have this stranger touching him like this. Tony thought he should be immune to it all by now, but he wasn't.

"Go gentle with…the nipple, 'kay?" Tony said, his teeth ground together, trying to inject some levity into this stressful situation.

The young man continued his work, and said, "Yeah, I think you said the same thing to me the last time."

Tony scowled, perused the man's face, and asked, "Me? I did? Which time?"

Careful not to knick the barely healed incision down Tony's chest, the man said, "Actually, I think I remember prepping you a couple different times. Did you have a cardiac ablation?"

"Uh…" Tony said, searching his memory for that particular procedure.

"Yes, he did," said Ducky, entering the room. "Good morning, Anthony."

"Sorry about...the early hour," Tony said, glad not to be alone for the duration.

"And you wouldn't have remembered the ablation," Ducky said, patting Tony's leg, atrophied and withered after months in bed. "That particular procedure took place the first few days you were admitted."

Tony turned his eyes back to the ceiling, considering the information. "Yeah, my memory is…kind of fuzzy where…" Tony gripped the sheet below him. His lungs felt tight with a decrease in oxygen, even though the ever-present cannula was draped under his nose. Then a strange recollection came to him, and Tony was forced to ask. "So, you prepped…me for that?"

The young man placed the razor on the tray and picked up a towel. Wiping down Tony's chest, he said, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure. Top and bottom."

"Yeah. Yeah," Tony muttered, remembering waking up days after those strange drug-clouded days to find all the hair on the front of his groin gone, just one of the many strange occurrences in the last months. He shifted, tried for a quick laugh, looked the man in the eyes, and said, "Yeah, I've been…meaning to th…thank you…for that Amish look in," he said, and coughed, "my…my fun zone. Chicks dig...a well-sh...shorn...man."

"You're welcome," the orderly said, chortling. He snapped Tony's gown closed again, gathered up his things, and wished Tony well.

"I called Jethro. He's on his way, along with Timothy, Ziva and Abigail."

"Thanks."

"You seem to be rather," Ducky said, taking in Tony's demeanor and a glimmer of the once-normal mischief in his eyes, "buoyant today."

Tony slid his fingers close to his cheek, grazed the stubble with a few fingernails, and said, "I shoulda…asked that orderly to…let me…borrow his…razor." Tony let his hand fall to his side with a thump, tried to catch his breath, and considered Ducky's observation. "It's a…good day, I…guess," he said, coming to almost accept the strange ups and downs of being a CHF patient, never knowing what the next day, the next hour will bring. Never knowing if you'll wake up feeling like death was imminent, or that you could take a nice, leisurely stroll around the wing. Lately, he'd had a long string of bad days, so he supposed he was due a few good ones. That it came the day he was scheduled for a heart transplant seemed rather cosmically ironic, but…

Outside the curtained bay, the cuff of sky-blue scrub pants and white-leather Danskos stopped, then turned, stopped again, and finally moved to open the curtain.

"Here comes…my nurse," Tony told Ducky. "Can't be…too…much longer…now."

"Good morning," said the woman, careful to close the partition behind her. This was more like it, thought Tony. A young nurse, long, dark hair, not a tat to be seen. Tony found a smile coming to his lips. "I'm Jaynie—"

"Hi, Jaynie," Tony crooned.

"I'm going to be your prep nurse today."

"You can be…my nurse any…day."

"Oh, you," she giggled, and Tony grinned. Ducky simply shook his head. The nurse picked up Tony's hand to read his wristband, another procedure Tony was quite used to, and said, "Let's begin with this: go ahead and tell me your name, your birth date, and why you're here this morning."

"DiNozzo, Anthony. July…" he began, but stopped to breathe, "nineteenth, nineteen-sixty-eight, but…much younger in…spirit than in years," he told her, and from deep within his lungs came a constricted wheeze. Too many words, not enough oxygen. Undaunted, Tony went on. "I'm here…for a heart transplant. You have…pretty hair, Jay…nie."

"Thank you," she said, placing his hand at his side and tapping it for good measure. "So, a new heart, eh?"

"Hey, Jaynie?"

"Yes?"

"My oxygen levels…are feeling…a little…low. You mind…crankin'…"

The nurse checked his readings, found his blood-ox was diminished, ninety-percent, typical for an end-stage CHF patient. She tried to reach behind his bed, but Ducky was in the way. Jumping from his seat in the tiny quarters to give the nurse the right of way, Ducky excused himself. "You must be Doctor Mallard," she said, and adjusted the oxygen output.

"Yes, I am."

"I heard you'll be scrubbing in." Patting Tony's shoulder, she said, "That should help."

Tony closed his eyes, smiled, and thanked her.

"Doctor Tanner and his team have been very kind allowing me to observe Anthony's many procedures," Ducky told her, shuffling to a less conspicuous place in the bay.

Jaynie gathered supplies from the room's cart, lined them up on the tray, and began her duties. "I'll be the one to come get you once the surgery begins." Pulling tabs from a sheet, she reached under the sheet and into Tony's gown, and said, "Time for some new leads." Jaynie placed the stickers across Tony's chest and on critical pulse points down his legs.

"So, Jaynie, I have a…a proposition for you," Tony said, counting off the many places the leads were to be placed.

"Oh, yeah?" Jaynie grabbed the snarl of lead lines from the tray and began attaching each clamp to the plastic nibs. "What's that?"

"I have some…time before surgery," he began, smiling at Jaynie, watching her draw all the light blue lines up and out of the neck of his gown. "So, I was thinking. I can sense…a connection…between us," he said, trying to pull in more air, "I mean…besides these…EKG leads."

"You think so?" she said, laughing, plugging in the lead box to the main monitor.

"Oh, yes," he said. "So, here's…what I'm…thinking: You could…potentially be the…the last woman to break…this ol'…heart of mine."

"I would never break your heart," she said giggling, readying a syringe.

"I sense…that about you." Tony tried to get sight of the drugs in the vial. "Right, so, what's…the juice, Jayne?"

"This," she said, pressing the needle into the port on Tony's IV, "is your first dose of immunosuppresants."

"I was hoping…for something good," he told her, watching the drug enter the main line.

"Believe me, this is good." Jaynie capped the needle and placed it in the haz-mat bin on the wall. Entering information on the bedside computer, Jaynie continued to talk. "Has your surgeon been in to talk to you?"

"Yeah. Earlier."

"Okay, well, he probably told you the same thing, but here goes," she said, finishing her data entry. She turned fully to face Tony, and rested her hand on his gurney. "Surgery should last about four to six hours. Count on six," she told Ducky. "When you wake up in post-op, you'll have a breathing tube down your throat."

"I know."

"And your wrists will be in cuffs. That's for your protection," she told him.

"I have a…vague memory," Tony said.

Jaynie gathered all her paraphernalia, stripped off her gloves, and said, "I'll be with you in surgery. Do you have any questions?"

"Is it Miss…Jaynie, or…Mrs. Jaynie?" he asked, flirting with her.

She rolled her eyes and laughed. "When your heart arrives, I'll be back to get you. If you have any family here, now would be the time to get those last-minute hugs and kisses."

"Actually," Tony began, ready with a line, but Ducky interceded.

"Thank you, Jaynie," he said, piercing Tony with a disapproving glare.

"Okay, well, we'll get going in just a few minutes," she said, and excused herself. Tony closed his eyes and rested, wondering how long "just a minute" would turn out to be.

"All in good time," Ducky said, reading Tony's mind.

"Yeah, I sup…pose."

Such a crazy paradox, he thought, waiting for surgery. Two warring components in his psyche—the overwhelming desire to get in there and begin to heal, coupled with the deep throb of intense fear of the unknown.

The bays, cordoned off by their thin cotton and mesh curtains, were hardly conducive to private conversations, and with little else to do, Tony took to diagnosing the patients within earshot. The man next to him was being prepped for a lung biopsy. Tony had listened in on the conversation between the patient's surgeon and his wife, who was concerned about her husband's ability to come out of anesthesia.

"He's had trouble in the past," she frequently reminded the surgeon, as well as the anesthesiologist and the nursing staff.

Tony turned to Ducky, sitting quietly in the corner of the bay, trying to stay out of the staff's way, and said, "He has low…blood pressure. Probably…pulmonary issue….issues, too."

Ducky chuckled and remained quiet, his arms wrapped over his chest.

The couple on the opposite side was talking about a vacation in France they had gone on, many years ago, and waiting in the pre-operative bay, they had decided to go back. Soon. Tony wanted to remind them that planning for the future does not insure there will be a future.

Tony didn't feel the need to share that with Ducky.

What would he like to share?

"When a man's an…empty kettle," Tony began to sing, his voice reedy and weak, "he should…be on…his mettle. And yet…I'm torn…apart."

"How's that, Anthony?" Ducky asked, closing his cell phone.

"Tin Man, Duck," he said, shifting on the gurney, the LVAD tubes pinching his skin. He settled back, drew in breath, and began again. "Just because…I'm presumin' that…I could be…kinda…human…"

"If you only had a heart!" Abby whispered, peeking her head through the curtain, her eyes sparkling and her smile as comforting as hope.

Tony smiled back, a joy suffusing him at the sight of both Abby and Tim cautiously entering the bay. "Heeeeey."

Careful not to crowd around Tony—too many machines were already cluttering the room— Tim stood opposite Abby, his shaking hands deep in his pockets, uncomfortable, even though he'd been with Tony throughout his lengthy, desperate illness.

Abby grasped hold of Tony's hand, rubbed his perpetually cold fingers, and launched into her spiel. "I'm so happy you're getting your heart. I called the nuns; they're lighting candles, saying a novena—all that nun stuff. Oooh, and Tim and I may have found our man in the Chen case," she said, and Tony looked to McGee, who attempted to speak, but Abby was undaunted. "We found a Botnet, and… Well, let me just say I've been awake for, like, forty hours, so if this explanation sounds a little, um, like a plate of spaghetti, spaghetti with, you know, silicon meatballs, then blame it on the six to ten Caf-Pows I've drunk in the last eight hours, but that number might just be grossly understated." Tim acknowledged that particular statement. "Are my teeth red? So, anyhow, we found this Botnet, and—"

"Abigail," Ducky said, slowing her down with a hand to her shoulder, "perhaps the details of the case can wait until after surgery."

_After surgery_, she thought. She looked Ducky in the eye and thought, yes, this is the time she could interject her belief that surgery absolutely would go well. So, she nodded her head, and stated, "It can!" Ducky excused himself to take a call, and Abby, turning back to Tony, leaned in toward him and kissed him on the cheek. "Make sure your surgeon writes your blood type and what kind of surgery you're having on your chest, okay?"

"They always…do, Abs," Tony told her, giving her hand a squeeze. Then her tears came, filling her eyes, her features tightening. He reached his fingers to her flushed cheek, offered her tepid smile, and "It's gonna…be…okay."

"Oh, I know," she said, and Tim joined her, comforting her with his arm.

"She's exhausted," he told Tony. "I'll get her in the waiting room, and she'll sleep through the entire surgery."

"Me, too," Tony said, but no one was in the mood for humor. "Abby, have I...ever...let you d...down?"

"Well," she started, sniffling, "there was that time when-"

"Not...today," he said.

Abby locked eyes with her friend. Was this the last time she'd see him, look into those green eyes? The very real consequences of the surgery boiled up inside her. She had this one last chance to tell him the important things, just in case. "I love you, Tony."

Tony smiled, tight-lipped and clenched jaw, one eyelid drooping like it always did under strain. Paula had told him life was too short not to tell a person you loved them when you do. Abby hadn't needed to be told that. And he wanted to tell her he loved her back, but that was hard. Instead, he brought their conjoined hands to his chest and pressed it there. "I'll...let you...be the first to...to listen to...the new h...heart."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

With a kiss to his forehead, and a quick wipe from her gloves to remove the lipstick smudge, Abby said her goodbye and let Tim do the same.

Tim moved in, took Tony's hand, shook it, set his jaw, and said, "You take care."

Tony drew his friend closer and whispered into Tim's ear. Ducky, joining them again, looked to Abby and shrugged.

While he listened, Tim scowled, then nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. No problem," he said, patting Tony on the shoulder.

"Thanks, McBeanCounter," Tony said, and coughed.

"Okay, so we're gonna..." Tim said.

Abby took up the line, and said, "...get Gibbs and Ziva."

"Right."

"Thanks, guys."

Abby and Tim left the way they arrived, quietly, cautiously, and Tony was left with an emptiness and a longing that he had come to expect. Even so, the ache of it never ceased to surprise him.

"Anthony?" Ducky said, coming to his side, taking in the tightness around Tony's eyes.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm...okay."

Ducky didn't believe him for a minute, but knew it was all part of the anxiety associated with impending surgery. Perhaps, he thought, a change of topics might be in order. "I just talked to Mr. Palmer," Ducky told him, removing his glasses to clean them. "He wanted to be here, but he attempted to navigate his way to the hospital from his girlfriend's apartment, and became miserably lost along the way." Ducky shook his head and slid his glasses back on. "Should the poor man ever move into a new home, he'd likely become lost walking from his kitchen to his dining room, and not show up to work for a week."

Tony chuckled. "Hey, Duck?"

"Yes."

How could he say all the things he needed to say to Ducky? What sacrifices had the man made in order to be with Tony, to be his advisor, his constant support from the initial heart attack, through to this? He knew he should somehow tell Ducky what his friendship had meant to him through these months, but words seemed inadequate. And even if he did have all the sentiments that could somehow convey his appreciation, he didn't have the energy. So he shut his eyes, and tried to boil down his words to their essence.

"Anthony?"

"Thank you," he finally said, and wished he could add "Thank you for being here, for helping me understand this wacky world of mine, for being the go-between, for your friendship, for your sympathy, for your kindness." But there wasn't time. So he opened his eyes, stinging with fatigue, blinked, and whispered, "For every…everything."

Ducky swallowed a knot caught in his throat, his brow tented. This felt like a goodbye to him, and perhaps it should be. How the poor man had stayed alive this long, Ducky wondered, was a miracle. He cleared his throat, which accomplished very little.

"Tony?"

Shifting his attention to the opening in the curtain, Tony smiled once again. "Welcome to…the show."

Ziva entered, followed by Gibbs, his fingertips lightly on her back. She moved in near her partner, picked up his hand, and dislodged the pulse-ox monitor.

"Oh, I'm…I'm…" she stumbled.

Tony touched her hand, and said, "Don't worry. The nurse. Monitors will…start to beep. She'll get it." Turning to Gibbs, he said, "She's hot. Name's Jaynie. I think she…she's into me."

Gibbs picked up the pulse-ox cuff, and replaced it on Tony's finger. "You can flirt with the nursing staff on your own time," he told his friend.

"Gotcha, Boss," Tony whispered, finding his energy waning.

Ziva eyed him sidelong, and asked. "Should you not be more concerned with the upcoming surgery than your love life?"

"The way…I figure it," he began, sucking in air, "it's all…about the…heart."

Ziva rolled her eyes, as did Gibbs. She bent to rest her hand next to his head, and came to be face to face with her friend and his sophomoric smile. Waiting for his childish display to pass, Ziva lifted one smart eyebrow. Finally, Tony's lascivious grin ebbed, and his countenance softened.

"Are you quite finished?" she asked.

Tony blinked, and said, "I sure…hope not."

She straightened the front of his gown, taking a moment to gain firmer ground. Finally, laying stern eyes upon him, she said, "You, Anthony DiNozzo, are a chore of a man."

"And you…are a …sh..shrew of a…woman," he said. The warmth and camaraderie from her eyes was a salve upon his heart, and so he latched onto that warmth and found his resolve.

She looked over his face, so pale, so thin from these months of illness. At his eyes, dark from lack of rest, smudged deep purple below. At the ever-present violet tinge to the edges of his lips. She should offer him assurance that all would be well, but she would not tell him what she could not be sure of. Instead, she touched his cheek, and told him, "I will be here when you get out."

He nodded, pressing into the softness of her hand. "Wear the Vera W…Wang." Ziva giggled, patted his cheek, and kissed him.

When she backed away from his bedside, Tony's fingers trailing after her, Gibbs took Ziva's place.

"You ready?" he asked.

"Do I have…a choice?"

"Nope."

Ziva excused herself, but not before giving Tony's big toe a playful yank. Tony lifted a hand to her; she bowed her head, and slipped through the curtain.

The heaviness returned to Tony's heart, and his eyes searched for a safe place to light upon.

"Tony," came Gibb's soft voice, very near his ear.

"Yeah, Boss?" he whispered back.

"You remember what I told you?"

"No white…shoes after…Labor Day?"

Gibbs smirked, and popped Tony gently on the top of the head, which made Tony flinch, but smile. The moment was short-lived. Every second spent goofing around was time wasted. He knew it; Gibbs knew it. Tony swallowed hard, and reiterated what Gibbs had told him days earlier, during one of those really bad days when he almost hoped he'd just slip away in his sleep. With his brow furrowed, a tight crease in the center, Tony whispered, "I'm…not alone."

Gibbs nodded, looked over all the monitors, the lines, the IVs that lined the room, and wondered why all of it needed to become the norm in this man's life. "You give 'em hell in there, you hear me?"

"I'm on…it, Bo…" he said, and Gibbs began to straighten.

"Okay, we're ready," said Jaynie, swinging open the curtain. "Doctor Mallard, if you'd like to join the team in the scrub room, they're waiting for you."

"Very good," Ducky said, stopping to wish Tony well before scurrying off.

Jaynie began unplugging the bed and all the monitors from the wall, coiling their wires under the gurney. With a clunk, she stomped on the brake release, and pulled the foot of Tony's bed out into the ward.

"Boss?" Tony called out. Jaynie moved her way to the head of the bed, but allowed Tony some time to finish with his friend.

"Yeah, Tony?"

"What'd I tell…you…about my…nurse?" Tony said, and Gibbs immediately understood the grand façade. He smiled, and patted Tony's hand. "Seriously. Boss?"

Gibbs shifted from one foot to the other, and reminded Tony, "You're kinda needed elsewhere, DiNozzo."

Tony drew in as much air as his burning lungs could handle, and said, "Ziva. She's all…brick and mortar…on the…outside." His lungs spasmed, and he coughed. Panting, he continued. "But…inside…she's, uh,…all…jello, you…know?"

One edge of Gibbs' lips curled up, and he nodded in agreement. Jaynie lowered the head of the gurney, and Gibbs gave his shoulder one more squeeze.

"We'll take good care of him," Jaynie said to Gibbs as she pushed Tony's gurney out of the bay and around the nurses' station.

Gibbs watched him go, proud of the strength he saw in Tony's spirit. A different gurney being pushed by a different nurse sailed by him, and when it had passed, Gibbs walked out of the room, feeling anonymous and helpless.

He looked at his watch: 0627. It was going to be a long day. He followed the signs to the exit, punched the large button on the wall that opened the doors, and joined his team.

They jumped up when he arrived. Abby's fingers were knotted together and pressed to her bare lips; Tim waited quietly for Gibbs' words, his hand hooked to Abby's shoulder, but for whose comfort, Gibbs wondered. Ziva stood like a fortress, her feet planted firmly on the ground, her arms linked like steel across her chest.

Gibbs pushed back his sport jacket and fastened his hand to his hip. "They took him into surgery."

"Now what?" Tim asked for all of them.

"Now," Gibbs said, "we let the surgical team do what they do."

Abby stared at him, wide-eyed. Tim shook his head. What else was there to say? The two retreated to a couch next to the wall, leaving Gibbs alone with Ziva.

"He will be fine. Of this, I am positive," she said, never making eye contact with Gibbs.

He stepped closer to her, cocked his head to find her eyes, and waited. Just waited.

Ziva, trying desperately to pretend Gibbs was not standing directly before her, continued to stare at the doors to the pre-op. "After all, he has an excellent team of surgeons. Yes, Tony will be fine. Of this, I am positive."

"Yeah, you said that," he told her, keeping his voice just above a whisper.

Ziva raked the hair from her forehead and back behind her ears, scraped her hand under her nose, willing, no, ordering her emotions to stay in check.

But when she looked at the man standing so close to her, when she saw the deep empathy in his eyes, there was no use trying to contain it anymore. She began to tremble. Her hands flew to her mouth, a futile gesture to disallow the tears. She could do nothing more than to shake her head, to keep her flooded eyes locked on his, to whisper through her hands, "I don't know what to do? I'm falling apart. I don't know what to do?"

His arms enveloped her, and she burrowed her face into his shoulder, where she hoped her sobs would be muted. She felt so small, so diminished, folded in on herself in grief, in fear. Her hands continued to press against her lips. The last thing she wanted was to frighten anyone with her sorrow, but she needed him to hold her, hold her together, because she felt like she could collapse from the seismic enormity of it all.

Gibbs didn't speak, didn't answer her continuous questions. She wasn't searching for answers. He knew that. He simply offered her the sanctity and protection of his arms.

After all, even the strongest wall will crumble under the right circumstance.

The brisk temperature of the operating room always surprised Tony. So, too, did the buzz of activity. Even at such an early hour, this was a place that forged ahead as if it were the middle of the work day. And all of it highly efficient, incredibly quiet, and thanks to the full masks and head coverings, very anonymous.

A hand lit on his shoulder, and Tony looked up into the Doctor Tanner's eyes, or he was pretty sure the eyes belonged to his surgeon. "The heart is on the way. Doctor Alexander says it looks great. We're going to start here in just a minute."

"Okay," was all Tony could manage to put to words. He knew the drill; he'd been told numerous times what to expect. While the heart was in transport with one member of the transplant team, the surgeons would begin the surgery. They'd remove the LVAD, begin the bifurcation of the heart, the clamping off of the valves. Nothing irreversible. When the harvested heart, swimming in iced saline solution, arrived in the OR, then and only then would they begin to remove the native, sick heart.

All of this he knew. What Tony never understood was why surgeons always kept their hands on his shoulder, even after the conversation was over. Did they forget their hands were there? And if that was the case, thought Tony, what else might they forget?

When it came down to it, Tony actually didn't mind the contact. It calmed him, helped to remind him that even though the room fairly vibrated with the preparations for this surgery, he was still at the center of it, and that hand on his shoulder allowed him to believe the staff understood it wasn't just some chest they were about to crack, but his chest, Anthony DiNozzo's chest.

What also helped was that he'd been in this particular operating room before, the one with the rainforest mural painted above the dropped lights. He remembered because the last time he had asked why this peculiar Brazilian montage had a zebra poking its head out from around a frond. It had been explained to him that a local high school's art club had painted the murals years back, and that that mistake in ecological habitats had gone unnoticed for years. If for no other reason, it did take the patients' minds off the very reason they were face up in the room, enabling them to find humor in an expatriated African animal in the middle of the tropics.

"How ya doin'?" Jaynie's asked, entering his sightline.

"I'm...cold," Tony told her, and as if she had known he was going to tell her that, a warmed blanket was draped over him and tucked under his chin. The best thing about hospitals, Tony always believed, microwaveable blankets...

"Tony," said his anesthesiologist from somewhere behind him, "I'm going to give you some medication now that's going to make you dizzy."

Tony kept his eyes solidly on the zebra, and said, "I know."

Ducky's voice came to him, saying, "Sleep well, my boy. I'll be here when you wake up."

"'Kay, Duck," Tony said, and gave his old friend a wink.

When he had been a cop in Baltimore, a hundred years ago, the force had put on a benefit for the police fund with some of the lower echelon players in the Orioles' organization. Taking part in the obstacle course (silently confident that he, a college athlete, would be able to smoke any one-sport bench warmer), Tony and his fellow contestants were given a baseball bat on which they were to rest their foreheads while affixing the other end to the ground. Fairly standard obstacle course stuff, especially when humiliation helped generate bigger bucks for the police fund. When the whistle blew, they were to spin around five times, and then race to the end of the field. As soon as he stood up, the world pulled and yawed; ninety-degrees on center became forty-five and falling. Good for a laugh.

Below the peeking eyes of exotic animals, his arms stretched out, all cruciform and strapped down, Tony felt the medicine began to seep into his bloodstream. It moved up in cold progression from his arm through his shoulder, and down into his chest, an effluvium of tingling sensation. He actually enjoyed this part. The room and all creatures in it began to distort and draw, twist and slide. Tony began to laugh, and the world faded away.

Tobias Fornell straggled into the room, his tenuous grasp on his parcels decreasing with each step.

"Morning," he called out, startling the few people waiting. Finally reaching the one table closest to him, Fornell deposited his goods.

Gibbs met him, and asked, "What's all this?"

Removing his overcoat, he said, "Oh, some of the boys down at the agency wanted to do something nice for you guys." Fornell pulled paper cups, napkins, plastic stirrers and thimbles of non-dairy creamers from the sack. "So I took up a collection."

"You get all of a buck-fifty?" Gibbs asked, peering into a bag of bagels.

"Now, Jethro," Fornell cajoled. He twisted the cap off the side of a box of coffee, poured a cup for Gibbs, and said, "I got two-thirty and an expired coupon for cream cheese."

"Guess it's the thought," Gibbs said, touching the rolled edge of the cup to his lips.

"Morning, Agent Fornell," Abby said, rubbing her eyes.

Tobias poured two more cups, handed one to Abby, and said, "Ms. Sciutto."

"Wow," said Tim, looking perplexed at the assortment of bagels and other amenities. "This is really, really, uh..."

"Yeah," agreed Abby, "like, really, really...nice of you."

"Right," said Tim.

Fornell eyed them both, chuckled, and poured a cup for himself. Taking a seat near Gibbs, he asked, "Where's Ziva?"

Gibbs didn't answer. He simply pulled up a corner of his mouth and shrugged his shoulder. It was a partner-thing, he was able to communicate, which Fornell clearly understood.

"And Ducky?"

"He's in with Tony," Gibbs said, leaning forward, yanking his suit coat out from under him.

"How long's DiNozzo been under?"

Gibbs glanced at his watch. "Couple hours."

"Any word?"

"Donor heart looks good."

"Good."

"They had some trouble removing the pump. His blood pressure dropped."

"He okay?"

"We'll see."

Tobias stared into Gibbs' eyes, wondering if the man would expound on this startling point. He didn't. Fornell took it as his cue to change the subject.

"So, you said you have some information for me," he said, relaxing in his seat, his legs crossed, arm across the back of the sofa.

Gibbs set down his coffee on the table between them and pulled his notepad out of his inner jacket pocket. "McGee and Abby think they found the connection between Chen's computer and the originating server in China. One of our agents is back on base trying to establish communication with our suspect."

"Is your suspect the same one in the picture you gave me?"

"Yup."

"I've got a name for you, if you-"

"Liu Xing Xio," Gibbs interjected.

Fornell, duly impressed, tipped his head to Gibbs, and said, "That McGee and Abby are quite the team."

"I take it we're on the same page," Gibbs remarked.

"And that page starts to get pretty hinky, Jethro," Fornell told him. "Seems our Mr. Liu has been on a number of watch lists for the last couple years. Minor stuff. Petty stuff. This just catapulted him into the majors."

"Heard he's got a father pretty high up in the Chinese Embassy."

Fornell reached behind him to grab a bagel. Ripping off a section, he said, "Word is dear old Dad is getting tired of protecting his precocious son. He brought Xio to the states to try to rein him in."

"He's doing a helluva job," Gibbs said, taking a long draw on his coffee. Fishing in his coat pocket, he pulled out a thumb drive and tossed it to Fornell. "Here's all the data taken from Chen's computer."

Tobias flipped it over in his palm a few times, considering the conversation. "You know as well as I do, Jethro, that this is getting bigger than the both of us."

"Yeah, I thought it might."

"Before this is all over, we might need to get the State Department involved."

"Nobody wants that."

"Least not my boss and your boss's boss." Fornell deposited the thumb drive in his pocket, and rose. Their business was over, and he had known Gibbs long enough to know when it was time to leave. "Well," he said, looking toward the double-doors to the operating rooms, "you'll call when he gets out?"

"Yeah."

Tobias offered his hand to Gibbs, who, rising, gladly took it. The exchange was "good luck," "thanks for everything," "this is a hell of a thing" all wrapped up in one, and then Fornell was gone.

Gibbs sat down heavily in his chair, screwed his elbows into his knees, and scraped a hand over his rough cheek. What would be, would be. There was absolutely nothing he or anyone else in the room could do about it. Either Tony would make it, or not. One, or the other. Life so often came down to that.

Gibbs took in the room-besides a family clustered around their Bibles in one corner, a lone woman huddled into a chair at the opposite end of the room, the only other people in the waiting area were those who came with him.

Except Ziva, that is. She was on her own, which Gibbs could certainly appreciate. When it came to waiting rooms, Gibbs had always been more comfortable attending to the quiet hours alone. Ziva was the same. It probably accounted for the fact why they understood each other so well. Why they so easily slipped in and out of the shadows so well, also. Alone.

So, what was the purpose of his reminder to DiNozzo, then? Why make it a point to tell Tony that he wasn't alone, when all Gibbs wanted, all he required was to be detached, solitary?

Probably why he was a sniper-one shot; one kill.

Probably why his three marriages failed-he had had one shot. After that, no one else could ever make him want to be delivered from his solitude.

So, why was he so adamant that Tony remember his connection and to those connected to him?

Because at the end of the day, no matter what report on Tony came through that door, Gibbs could look across the room, lock eyes with Ducky, with Tim and Abby, with Ziva, who would be there, yes, she would. And even in silence, their joy, their grief, their apprehension, their relief would connect them. A shared community of unspeakable, unutterable emotion.

And sometimes, that's all you need.

It was entirely remarkable to the man trained in the intricacies of human anatomy that without the very engine, this machine could still run. He dared to make the analogy of removing his beloved Morgan's engine and replacing it with a new one, all the while the automobile sat idling. A ridiculous concept, and yet here he was, standing by while a team of surgeons endeavored to do just that with Tony DiNozzo.

It was simply a fascinating procedure, especially to the medical examiner. To the colleague and friend of the man strapped to the table, it was a horrifying proposition. However, the intersection between the two disparate qualities was this-Tony would be given a second chance. This surgery, then, was quite miraculous.

How many hearts had he held in his hands? Thousands? How many injuries had he discovered? How many diseases had he found? Ducky stood aside, watching the surgery on the overhead monitors, and held his breath.

Over a career that could be measured by the decades, Ducky had scooped out innumerable heart, all cold, or, at best, room temperature. By removing the diseased or injured or perfectly healthy heart out of the chest cavity of those cadavers, there was never a thought in his mind that his actions would change the course of the dead man's or woman's future. Autopsying the heart would only lead to answers about the person's past.

Watching this heart in Tony's chest, laboriously beating, with tubes and clamps jutting out from every angle, Ducky felt uncommonly awed. His learned eyes knew he was observing a heart three times the size of a healthy heart. Thick and swollen, this heart was simply heroic in that it continued to work. And as the surgeons toiled to remove it, turning it over like one turns over a cumbersome pot roast in its pan, Ducky momentarily forgot to whom the heart belonged, so fascinated by the surgery and the great diseased organ.

Ten feet from him, in a cinched plastic bag bathing in ice-cold saline solution was a different heart, a healthy heart. In a matter of minutes now, this harvested organ would have a new home, and thanks to the distended size of the native heart, that home would be roomy.

Each step the surgeons took to remove the diseased heart was perfunctory to Ducky. With slight variation, it was how he would remove a heart from a patient, the only difference being the time constraints, as well as the fact that his patients weren't still alive. Whereas Ducky could leisurely observe the heart in its cavity before scooping it out and placing it on the scales, these surgeons were on a precise schedule from the time they began to clamp off the valves, place Tony on a bypass machine, and make their first dissections. Two teams choreographed the event-the removal team and harvesting team, trimming the cuffs of the new heart's aorta to better match Tony's, flushing out those preserving fluids that made it possible to transport the heart from one venue to another.

Yes, he had seen empty chest cavities, more than he cared to remember. Yet, he had rarely seen a gaping maw, held apart by rib spreaders, draped by blue cloth, on one whose veins still pulsed, whose brain still fired.

Fascinating. Horrifying. Miraculous.

When the new heart was cradled in Tony's chest and the surgeons began the meticulous work of connection, Ducky asked permission to examine the exhumed heart.

"My goodness," he whispered, when the basin was placed in his hands. Ducky brought it to a side table, peeled open the right ventricle from the left, made measurements, albeit rudimentary without his instruments, of the spongy thickness of the walls. Having seen many hearts just like this one, Ducky found evidence of endomycardial fibrosis, just like he knew he would.

The main difference being these were hallmarks he had found in hearts that helped bring about the death of his patient. Here, in this cool room, holding Tony's heart in his hands, Ducky was acutely aware that behind him surgeons were working tirelessly to assure death would not come to their patient. Ducky's eyes welled up.

"Life goes on," he said to no one, maybe to this soldier of a heart that had battled beyond its efficacy "I speak for Tony when I say 'thank you.'" Ducky placed the heart back in its basin, thanked the nurse for allowing him the time, and returned to the surgery.

He looked up at the clock-11:57. Five hours had passed by since the first incision. Many more would pass before this excruciating day would end.

Fascinating. Horrifying.

And yet, more than all else, breathtakingly miraculous.


	14. Chapter 14

This is a very short chapter, but I think it needs to be left alone to preserve the narrative. Plus, I'm on my way out of town, and I wanted to get this out before I left. (-: A sincere thank you to all who have stuck with this story and who have been so kind in words and spirit. I am, as always, humbled by your appreciation of this adventure.

As always, I don't own them, nor do I pay their medical bills.

Oh, and if this chapter keeps appearing and disappearing, chalk it up to the fact that I'm not used to my new Mac. It turns out that iPages is not easy-peasy compatible with Word. Curse you, Genius.

**When** she closed her eyes and let her skin absorb the warm sunshine, Ziva could almost believe she was sitting on the beach in Tel Aviv, while the soft breezes from the Mediterranean flirted with her hair. She could almost believe she was picking up on the scent of falafel and shawarma, the sounds of shoppers and sirens.

So she didn't open her eyes. She didn't want to see that she was in fact sitting in a courtyard surrounded by high glass and steel exterior hospital walls and precisely manicured beds of bright flowers. She didn't want to think about Tony lying on a gurney with his chest wide open. And she didn't want to think about what comes next, if there was a next. She wanted to clear her mind, her body, and not have to be beholden to anyone. Sitting in this purposefully created haven in the middle of a multi-floored hospital was as close to a sanctuary as she could hope for. No, it wasn't Chof Bograshof, with half-dressed sun bathers and some dressed not at all. But at the very least, this mid-Atlantic sun, reflected off chrome and glass, was warm.

She needed this escape, this reprieve from the months of frenetic maneuvering between blunt situations. If there was one good thing about having Tony in surgery, it was this: She knew where he was, and she could do nothing other than await word on him. She wasn't trying to work; she wasn't trying to go on with the all-but-forgotten skill of day-to-day living. She wasn't in the middle of her day trying to focus on the case, while half her attention was necessarily on his health.

Hours earlier Tim had come to give her the update -Tony was hanging on, the new heart was in, working on connecting it, that sort of thing. She really had only listened to his inflection, not his words. If his voice remained calm, so did she. He asked if she wanted anything, and she thanked him, but no, she was fine.

Tim stepped back into the hospital, and Ziva closed her eyes again.

This moment was important. It meant she wouldn't receive a call while rushing through her suspect interviews, only to excuse herself, pulse racing, with the anxiety of what the message would be: Is he worse? Is there a heart? Is he dead? Months and months of her mind and body pendulating between zero and the red zone had depleted her.

Those nights she had stayed with him did nothing to ameliorate her anxieties. Night after night he'd wake up whimpering with pain augmented by fatigue, and just as quickly he'd fall back to sleep. She'd remain awake, mind tumbling and heart hammering. How many dawns had she met in those days?

When Abby joined her in the courtyard, Ziva remained stoic and silent. The last thing she needed was to have Abby smother her with comfort and sympathy. And she certainly didn't need Abby reminding her how it was okay to show emotions. Any more emotion, and Ziva was fairly confident she'd turn herself inside out and never regain her original form.

So she braced herself. She steeled her spine, lifted her chin, and tapped her fist against her legs. Coming up with a list of defenses, some more curt than others, Ziva waited for the inquisition that was sure to come.

And for her part, Abby smiled, padded across the courtyard grounds, making sure she didn't stray from the very angular path. She stood before sitting next to Ziva, taking a moment to find the light on her face, an exaggerated show of expression for anyone other than Abby. When she did sit, she closed her eyes and sighed, content. Abby let the warmth of the sun touch her cheeks and, in Ziva's opinion, her overly optimistic smile.

At least she didn't say a word.

As the minutes passed in companionable silence, Ziva allowed herself to relax. The months that had preceded this moment had sponsored an accord between the two, that should the time come when hanging on to hope was no longer an option, then they would weep, then they would come to each other in tears, in grief. Until then, Ziva wished to persevere in strength, control and purpose, even if she had to fake it.

This tacit understanding between two disparate souls had taken years to form, built out of two opposing forces-one who offered up her inner workings like precious jewels on a wisp of a chain, and one who wore an impregnable shield.

There was that day when Ziva somehow managed to walk back into the bullpen, all scrapes, scabs and shock, while the director and the rest clapped, and Abby hadn't even paused to ask permission to break their accord. She touched Ziva's face- "Are you really here?"- and wrapped Ziva in her arms. As for Ziva, she let her, hardly able to feel the embrace, and yet somehow managed to bring her hands to rest on Abby's hips. Numb. Blank. Abby held her, stroked her hair, and Ziva felt like an old popsicle stick, ruined and bleached out, devoid of use. No, she had not given Abby permission to descend upon her, but she had not pushed her away either. In that moment, when even Ziva could not hear the keening in her soul, Abby had. Remarkably, she always could.

So here they were again, Ziva wishing to be alone, and Abby sitting next to her, that girlish smile on her face, her studded collar sparkling, her eyes closed against the bright sun.

When she felt Abby's cool fingers slip across her own, balled up in a tight fist, Ziva tensed. There was no urgency, not even the faintest tactile wish that Ziva would give more to Abby. Just a hand, warm and supple. Ziva's shoulders were the first to soften, and then her jaw. Surprising even herself, she unfurled her thumb and forefinger, and grasped hold of two soft fingers. Then three. And then, palm to palm, cloaked by their empathic silence, where they observed the continuation of this day, the continuation of hope, of resilience, of understanding.

Together for Abby, and in silence for Ziva.

**There** had been people in that room half his age. A third his age. Even so, Ducky had stayed on his feet through the entire procedure. When it was over, he had straggled out of the surgical suite, clawed the mask from his weary face, peeled the gloves from his hands, and stripped the over-gown from his aching body. He deposited them all in the bin, then found the nearest chair. He needed to sit, just for a moment, before facing the rest.

They would come to him with a barrage of questions, and Ducky wasn't sure if he had the energy to answer them all. What he had witnessed in that operating room was stunning, and even with all his years of reporting and cataloging the human experience, Ducky had a gnawing fear that perhaps in this moment, words would fail him.

Feeling as though his legs were melding with the seat of the chair, as if he and this inanimate object were becoming one inert mass, Ducky dug his hands into his legs, locked out his elbows, straightened his aching back, and took a deep breath. The only thing worse than having to stand aside the doctors and nurses for the surgery, a mere observer, was to have to the one waiting beyond the action, and Ducky wished not to further their time spent on tenter hooks.

When Gibbs heard the swish of the double doors open, he glanced back, expecting yet another of the hospital's personnel to walk through and past him. When he realized it was Ducky slogging through the doors, hunched back and still in scrubs, Gibbs reached over and jostled Tim's shoulder.

Tim, who had been sleeping for most the afternoon, roused with a start. He stared red-eyed and mouth-agape at Gibbs for a moment before full consciousness kicked in.

"Go get Abby and Ziva," Gibbs told him, to which Tim nodded. Then processed the command. Then nodded again. "McGee!"

Tim bolted to his feet, and his primal brain catapulted his body out of the room. By the time he reached the hall, he realized where he was going. Doubling back, Tim motioned to Gibbs that he'd be just a sec.

He hit the doors with more force than needed, and both Abby and Ziva jumped.

"Uh," he said, knowing he should apologize, but things were finally catching up to his sleep-deprived brain, and an image of Ducky surfaced, which meant that... "It's, uh... He's, uh..."

Mono-syllabic utterances aside, Ziva and Abby peeled off the bench in opposite directions and raced to the door. Together, they strode into the waiting area, where Gibbs and Ducky were seated.

The exhaustion that emanated from Ducky was palpable. It was in his rounded back, his hand spread haphazardly across his blue-capped skull. Ziva wished she had not seen his blood-splattered shoe covers. They took seats near him, holding their breath, their eyes locked to his lips where words, it was hoped, would eventually come.

Gibbs, sensing the high level of apprehension amongst them all, cupped Ducky's knee. "What d'ya got, Duck?"

Ducky slipped the scrub cap from his head, folded it, and wondered how to begin. "When they placed the donor heart in Anthony's chest...My God, Jethro," he uttered, connecting with Gibbs' deep blue focus, "it was the perfect specimen. The size of my fist, still cold from transport, but..." Ducky swiped the cap under his nose, and Abby clenched Tim's hand. Ziva's eyes flew between those seated, trying to read the future in their unspoken language. As for Ducky, it wasn't enough telling them the outcome. He needed to process it all through the words, to try to make sense of what he had just witnessed. "You see, when they attach a harvested heart, it is, in essence, just tissue. They must be precise, and I do mean absolutely precise, when and where that last suture goes in place before they release the pressurized blood into the new heart. It's...remarkable, and, I don't mind saying, a moment of intense anxiety. After all, there's no assurance until the blood begins to flow that this is, indeed, a healthy heart. The only way of knowing is the introduction of blood." Ducky paused then remembering those crucial minutes, when Tony's chest was necessarily pooled with blood so that the surgeons could _feel _the correct connection of tissue, could _feel_ air bubbles escaping, could _feel_ the depth of sutures. He shook his head, took a deep breath, and labored on. "Once they removed the clamps and turned off the heart-lung machine and the heart began to fill," he continued, strangling the cap in his shaking hands, "it pinked up, a most spectacular vision. It...the heart flopped around, much like a fish does in a person's hand, trying to find its rhythm, and then that gathering of tissue became...an organ." Jethro offered up a crooked, collegial smile. Ducky paused to breathe, to consider the awesome things he had seen, and then continued. "This new organ...it began to beat, and I watched Anthony's heart, his new, healthy heart, come to life, and I was..." He stopped then, pressed the cap to his lips. Gibbs reached out and rubbed the older man's shoulders.

"So," Abby said, asking permission with her doe eyes, "Tony is...Tony's..."

Ducky locked eyes with her, and the camaraderie that they had always shared gave him the strength to go beyond himself and comprehend the suffering she and the rest had endured. Ducky stood and opened his arms. Abby rose into those arms, hooking her chin on his shoulder, and he said, "Yes, my dear, our Anthony is alive and well. Very well."

Abby screwed shut her eyes and nodded, refusing to release her arms from Ducky. Gibbs lowered his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, lest his overwhelming sense of relief pour out of him. Tim simply clapped his hands together, smiling, nonplussed yet filled with what he could only describe as joy.

And Ziva simply sat quietly, her hands on her knees, her mouth set in a tight line. Something inside her began to release, and when she drew in breath, it seemed to reach parts that had gone airless for weeks on end.

"When can we see him?" Abby asked, luxuriating in the comfort of Ducky's arms, not quite ready to abandon such solace.

"Well," Ducky began, trying to extricate himself from Abby's embrace, "he'll be in recovery for many hours waking up, and because of the critical manner of these hours, no visitors will be allowed. I'm going to..." Ducky patted Abby on the shoulder, stepped back and plopped down onto the chair.

"So, when, then?" Abby asked for the rest.

"More than likely, tomorrow morning," Ducky told her. "In order to protect the heart, they have Anthony highly sedated. He's intubated, and will be for the next day, possibly two." He took stock of all their faces-a mixture of fatigue and great relief. He supposed his features mirrored theirs. "May I suggest-you've all been here for hours. At this point, the best thing we can do is take care of ourselves. As for me, I will be finding quarters to in which to hunker down."

"That's a good idea, Duck," Jethro said, rising. Ziva joined him, ready to be propelled forward. Abby searched their faces, not quite ready to take that next step.

"Um, guys," Tim said, halting them with his voice. "I, uh, the thing is...A couple weeks ago, Tony and I had a talk about his finances." Worried, they all looked at him for answers, which he supplied. "Okay, well, the irony of this whole thing is this: Tony's never had so much money in his savings account. I mean, not since he was a kid. He hasn't bought a new suit in-"

"Four months," Ziva added, remembering the new Armani that surely was still hanging in his tailor's shop. She added that to her list of errands to run-pick up his suit. A brand new suit that would never fit him, not now. A frisson of regret, like the sparking of a frayed electrical cord, scalded her core, and Ziva carefully excused herself, stepping aside so that no one would be witness to this silly, astonishing display of weakness.

"Right, so my point is that Tony made a request," Tim said. "Actually, it was more of a demand. He said that if and when the heart finally came, and if he made it through the surgery-"

"He didn't think he'd make it through the surgery?" Abby asked.

Tim glanced at her and had no answer, so he went on with his point. "Tony told me he wanted us all to go out for dinner. On him. His exact quote was, 'Don't take no for an answer, McMaitre de, or I'll hammer on that monkey skull of yours 'til it rings like a Chinese gong.'"

Abby said, winding her arms through his, "Ah, that sounded just like him, Timmy."

"Actually, that sounded like Rosalind Russell," Gibbs added, picking up his overcoat. He assessed his team, tired but revived. "Did you think to make reservations, Girl Friday?"

"Uh, no, but," Tim looked at his watch, and said, "it's still early. I don't think we'd have trouble getting in anywhere."

"I'm in," Abby said, raising her hand.

Ziva, with a pert nodded, said, "As am I."

Gibbs looked down at a seated Ducky, who said, "I'm afraid not. Like I said, I believe I'll take my leave of you." Jethro offered his hand the elderly man, who normally wouldn't think to take advantage of such a thing. On this day, however, when the physical and emotional demands had been so high, he gladly accepted the proffered hand. "I shall call, should there be a need, but I am confident that your meal and my slumber will go uninterrupted." He turned, then, to Gibbs, and said, "It was a good day, Jethro."

Gibbs drew up a corner of his smile, blue eyes sparkling, pulled Ducky into his embrace. "Yes it was. I appreciate everything you've done, my friend."

Fatigue overriding stoicism, Ducky's chin trembled. He stepped back, gave Gibbs' arm a squeeze, and waved his goodbye.

"So," Tim said in Ducky's wake, "a steak place?"

"How about Mexican?" Abby said.

"No," Ziva added, finding comfort in her idea. A twinkle came to her eye, and she said, "Italian. For Tony."

Like the first warm day after a long, cold winter, they shared a common experience of sloughing off the heaviness of those months in order to embrace the change in temperature. Abby's eyes softened, and she gave Ziva a smile. "Filomena's."

Ziva nodded. "Yes. Tony would like that."

Gibbs agreed, turned to lead the way, and said, "Filomena's it is."

Tim winked at Abby, and followed Gibbs. Abby, pigtails waving, smile flashing, took a few quick steps to catch up.

Ziva remained. Just for a moment. A moment to breathe. To uncoil the fist inside her soul. And when she had, she jogged to the rest.

Coming to a stop at the elevators, Gibbs pressed the lobby button. Tim pulled out his cell phone and found the number for the restaurant, and Abby and Ziva waited in front of the doors. The three watched the elevator's panel inform them of its ascension, and Abby felt a warmth encapsulate her hand. Looking down, she saw Ziva's tiny hand slip into hers. A flash of Ziva's dark eyes told Abby what she needed to know.

This was not a reaching out from a distraught, frightened woman, afraid to expose her fractured heart. This was an embrace, an acceptance of a friendship, and an acceptance of a common bond.

Abby gave Ziva's hand a pulse, and she continued to stare at the paused light panel.

And Gibbs lowered his face so that these two powerful, brilliant women would not be interrupted by his pride in their strength.

**He was awake.**

With absolute clarity, Tony knew where he was - post-op. He knew there was a tube snaked down his throat-uncomfortable but inconsequential. Without a memory beyond a spiraling zebra's face, he knew the surgery was over.

And without having to be told, Tony knew the surgery had gone well. He could feel it, a deep, visceral wellspring of assurance that he was fine. That he could breathe. That a heart was beating inside his chest, a strong rhythm, a sure rhythm.

Nurses' voices speaking overly loud to patients wading out of their sedation; monitors sounding cautious warnings and alerts to blood pressure and oxygen levels; phones ringing; the clang and clutter of carts chugging through the ward.

Outside his bay, nurses and doctors in blue scrubs, with stethoscopes draped across their necks and thick pharmaceutical booklets weighing down their back pockets, created a constant traffic pattern, none bothering to check in on him. Somehow Tony knew he was awake too early from surgery, that none of the surgical staff would ever have expected him to be aware this soon. It was all right. He was perfectly content and pleasantly relaxed.

If his body, depressed and sedated, found it impossible to express his keen awareness of this euphoric realization, his mind accepted it without reservation. A strange dichotomy, this sublime consciousness without the physical ability to convey it. Even if he could not cry out with excitement, throw out his hands in an exultation of joy, he could silently repeat this simple two-word phrase that was at once satisfying and excellent:

"I'm alive." That the rest of the world knew this was of little consequence. "I'm alive," he told himself.

He'd woken up three different times from three different surgeries in this post-op. Twice before he was frightened, in pain, praying for someone to enter the space to hold his hand, to check on him-something. But this time...

It was enough to breathe, steady and easy. It was enough to enjoy this anesthetized relaxation, in which his body simply floated without tactile sensation, allowing his mind to be free of the encumbrance of pain. It was enough knowing his next breath and the breath after that one would not be his last.

Were his wrists in restraints? It didn't matter. He didn't need to move. Didn't want to move. His mind was clear and his thoughts were full of joy, of quiet, blissful acceptance that his life would go on.

In thanks, he closed his heavy eyes. And when he did, a grateful, silent tear slid across his temple.


	15. Chapter 15

Okay-First, an apology! This has taken forever to update, and my only excuse is laziness. I had a great summer, a terrific start to the school year, and here it is almost the middle of the first semester, and I'm just getting around to posting. Forgive me!

Second-An ENORMOUS thank you to all who sent me feedback. I lost track of responding to you in the last few months, and for that I am entirely repentant. Again, I've become incredibly lazy in the last few months. Familial peace and husbandly health will do that to you. So to all of you who took the time to write to me, thank you. Truly, I read each note, and I am incredibly grateful.

Third-I have three preps this year, which, in teacher-speak, means I'm going out of my mind with lesson plans. I say that to ask for your continued patience and support of this silly little story of mine. I corrected literally six inches of papers tonight, sorted through eight more inches, and really planned on tackling at least two inches of those, but chose to write this chapter instead. If I'm a very good middle-aged girl, I'll buckle down and score these essays sitting in front of me, and then I'll have time to continue writing my story. Fingers crossed!

Fourth-OH! "Young Frankenstein" reference-you know who you are...

Anyhow, enjoy! All is well!

******/******

"**Go ahead and put these on,"** said the nurse, handing Abby and Gibbs surgical masks, which they tied on without question, just as they had washed their hands without hesitation. There were certain precautions they were used to, all in the name of keeping the patient away from germs. Abby, who had lived her life making sure evidence remained unsullied, absolutely understood the need for such measures.

"How's he doing?" Gibbs asked, allowing Abby to go before him, which she refused, hooking her hand onto his arm, instead.

The nurse smiled, and said, "He had a good night. Slept through most of it. I think the word is he'll be moved to the step-down ward later today."

"So, he's..., like, talking and, um,...everything?" Abby asked, her gait quick and pensive.

"Oh, yeah," she said, ushering them through the hall. "He's still receiving oxygen via a nasal cannula, but the vent is gone."

"That's...that's good," Abby said, her coiffed eyebrows arched well into her bangs.

Gibbs nodded, a crooked grin on his lips, and said, "Yup."

She thought she'd be more excited, more relieved at finally being allowed to see her friend. After all, it had been more than 24 hours since she'd seen him last, and she didn't want Tony thinking that she had had better things to do in the intervening hours. All she had done was think of Tony, of what he must be feeling, of what it must be like to have another human's organs inside your body, and not in, you know, the way Tony would presume she was talking about.

Sometimes the connotative mixed in ridiculously with the denotative in her brain, and that swirl often times resulted in uncomfortable moments for her and anyone else who was present. Anyone except Tony.

That smirk, that lascivious chuckle. Those puppy dog eyes with fiendish intent-those were the things she missed. And those were the things she desperately wanted to see again.

But month after month of entering his hospital rooms, at seeing his ashen skin, his slack jaw, his sunken eyes, deplete of hope, month after month of watching him disappear among the chirps and whirls of cardiac machines and the pumps and IV-drips that kept him tethered to life, Abby would have given anything to have Tony make fun of the way her mind worked.

It had been so long, Abby could hardly remember what their norm used to be. In these months and weeks, it was necessary to be the giver, to offer comfort, cheer, whatever Tony was lacking. She was happy to do it.

It was just that she had plastered on the face of false excitement and hope in the wake of one procedure after another, and Abby didn't know if she had it in her to walk into Tony's room, and once again state, "You look great!" She didn't know if she could pat his hand and assure him that he'd be okay, that it would all work out, when the truth of the matter was...it wouldn't.

"Give it to me straight, Ducky," Abby had told her friend before she and Gibbs left the navy yard, leaving behind Tim and Ziva to work on the case. "I need to be prepared."

Continuing his work of measuring the weight of a cadaver's intestines, from which Abby turned away, Ducky said, "That's a rather existential statement for eight in the morning, isn't it, my dear? Er, Mr. Palmer? If you'd be so kind, record twenty...point nine kilograms on Mr. Taylor's large intestines."

"Certainly, Doctor," Jimmy said, scribbling down the number.

"I mean I need to know what to expect. You know, when I step into Tony's room," Abby told Ducky, peeking behind her to see that the eviscerated body was beyond her scope.

Ducky glanced at Abby's hands, tangled together and white-knuckled. Abandoning the internal organs in the scale, he peeled off his gloves and asked his assistant to take over for him, which Jimmy did seamlessly.

Leading Abby by the elbow to his side desk, where he offered her a seat, he began. "What should you expect?" Lowering himself, Ducky continued, "Well, expect to see a rather impressive lot of machines, not unlike most of the rooms he's been in for the last months. There will also be a plethora of tubes and wires, and quite a large assortment of dressings covering his incisions and where chest tubes are placed."

Her eyes were closed, concentrating and cataloging the images. "Okay. Okay. I'm there. Hit me with the rest. Like, ventilator."

"That was removed early this morning."

"So, no on the intubation, but yes on the other tubes."

"Precisely."

Breathing deep, Abby exhaled, and said, "Okay, I think I can do this."

"Now, lest you should forget," Ducky said, halting her with his hand, "as of earlier this morning, he's still receiving heavy doses of pain medication. Don't be unnerved by..." He stopped. Looked into her eyes, eyes that had seen Tony near death, near despondency. Eyes that had watched him pant for breath, that had kept watch over him even when the gray wash of his skin made it difficult to find the once vibrant friend within. Ducky shook his head, smiled, and patted Abby on the knee. "Just go. He will be pleased to see you, and you _need_ to see him."

And so she did, with Gibbs, her arm linked through his.

Reaching his bay, the nurse turned to the two, and said, "Not too long, okay?" They assured her they would obey, and Abby sucked in and held a breath. Gibbs looked her over, silently asking if she was ready. Without exhaling, Abby nodded.

Ducky's warnings about the plentitude of machinery had been an understatement. So, too, was the description of the the tubes and wires. Seemingly a careless jumble of lead wires strewn across his bare chest, Tony was connected to the bed by yellow, blue, white and clear lines, with pressure cups around both arms, with tubes jutting out of his chest, out his abdomen, out of his side. His arms were cradled across soft pillows, his sternum layered in white bandages. The ever-present PICC line sprouted from his arm.

And somewhere in the chaos, Tony DiNozzo, looking diminished and swallowed up by it all, blinked, slow and lethargic.

In that moment, Abby Sciuto knew she hadn't prepared enough.

"Hey, Abs," came the breathy voice.

When she saw the smile that that voice had traveled through, when she at last noticed the deep pink of his lips, of his skin, Abby rushed to his side. "Oh, hey, Tony! God, it is soooo good to see you."

Gibbs, smiling behind his light-blue mask, ambled in next to Abby and slid his fingers around Tony's. Tony gave his boss' hand a light squeeze, and when he did, Gibbs was immediately impressed by the warmth, something that had been missing in Tony's hands for months. Probably for longer than he had even known. "How ya doin', DiNozzo?"

Tony drew his tongue over his dull lip, closed his eyes, and smiled, soft and languid. "If I were any better, Boss, I'd be a twin."

"Thank God for small blessings," Gibbs chuckled.

"Are you in any pain?" Abby asked, afraid to touch him, unable to find a clear patch.

"Nah," he said, grinning, finding it difficult to keep his eyes open. "Ten milligrams of morphine every four hours, and that's just fun all day long."

Both Gibbs and Abby laughed out loud at that one, perhaps in release of their previous tension, perhaps in the recognition of a bluster that had been atrophying with each setback. Or, perhaps it was in his speech-fluid and without pause, fueled by a continuous supply of oxygen. It was remarkable, and so they laughed.

A bustle of activity just outside his bay opening, and a technician pushing yet another wheeled instrument entered the small area. "Time for an ultrasound, Mr. DiNozzo," the woman said, plugging in her machine, and turning to Abby and Gibbs, she said, "This won't take long. If you wouldn't mind stepping outside."

"No," said Tony, which stopped the technician in mid-preparation.

"Excuse me?"

Tony shook his head, and said, "This is Abigail Sciuto, PhD in chemistry, advanced studies in technology, and an all-around, world-class, heavy-duty forensic scientist. She stays."

The woman began to protest, but Tony cut her off.

"And this great big hunk of a man," he said, pausing to rest a moment, "is my dad." When Gibbs crooked an eyebrow and the woman looked at them both with a dubious eye, Tony backpedaled. "Okay, he's not my dad. Obviously, we don't look anything... He's my step-dad. Mom married him when I was young, back when he was still a brunette, you know how that goes, so," he said, offering a minute shrug of his shoulders, "you can see why he needs to stay, as well. Hope that's okay with you, Dad."

"Whatever you say, Son," Gibbs said, cocking his head to the side, not afraid to intimidate a post-operative man.

Looking over the two, at the woman with the platform boots and the tightly plated hair, at the man with the silver hair and bright-blue eyes, the woman simply gave up and pulled out a tube of lubrication. Shaking all the gel to the opening of the tube, she said, "Your doctors want some images of your heart, see if there's any fluid gathering, that sort of thing. You might feel some discomfort."

"Oh, I don't think so," Tony laughed, not feeling a thing except the happiness of having his friends with him.

"Tony, it's okay if you want me to leave," Abby said, moving to the other side of his bed.

Cold gel was dolloped on his chest, and Tony turned to Abby. "I made you a promise-you'd be the first to hear my new heart."

"You remember," she cooed, touched by his thoughtfulness.

Spreading the gel across bare sections of his chest, the technician began taking preliminary readings and measurements of his thoracic cavity, careful to lift lead lines when necessary.

"Hey, Tony?"

"Hey, Abs?"

"Can you, like, ya know, feel the heart? I mean, can you feel it beating?"

"Well, since I didn't have a pulse there for a while," Tony said, alluding to his LVAD, "this is quite a change. Yeah, I can feel it. When I close my eyes," he said, finding, once more, his eyes doing just that, "I can hear it. I gotta tell ya, it's...it's pretty rockin'."

The technician slid the probe across his chest, down the side, and back up. And then she paused. On the screen, in the granulated black and white, triangular image, the characteristic oscillation of blood rushing between chambers could be seen. The woman tapped keys on her computer, and moved the wand.

"Can you turn up the volume?" Tony asked, keeping his eyes on Abby, waiting to capture that moment when she would hear for herself that he was well.

With a whoosh-whoosh, whoosh-whoosh, strong and resolute, the heart beat inside Tony's chest, and Abby was held breathless by the glorious sound and sight.

"It is...alive!" Tony attempted to bellow, beginning to capitulate to his exhaustion. Gibbs smiled at the movie reference, but took note of his agent's fatigue.

Placing the transducer back in its holder and pulling tissues from a box, the technician gently wiped down Tony's chest, and said, "I'm all done."

"Thanks," Tony whispered. The woman patted his shoulder, unplugged her machine, and left the three alone.

Gibbs watched the listless movement of Tony's features, at his battle against sleep. "Get some rest, Tony," he said, taking DiNozzo's hand in his. "Then, get a haircut."

"Admit it-you miss me," Tony said, the muscles in his face slackening.

"More than you know," Abby told him, touching his warm cheek.

Gibbs rounded the end of the bed, touched Tony's protruding foot, and said, "Ziva and McGee will stop by later."

"That'll be...that'll be..." he whispered.

Gibbs chuckled and reached out for Abby, who slid under his arm. "Go to sleep, Dr. Frankenstein."

"That's Fronken...steen," Tony managed to say before slipping back into a blissful sleep.

****/****

"**Lunch."**

Gibbs looked at the cup of coffee that had unceremoniously been placed on his desk, and then at his watch. "Don't ya mean dinner?"

Tobias Fornell smirked, and said, "When have you ever eaten before 10 PM?"

Gibbs took the cup, tipped it toward his friend in thanks and in recognition of the truth, removed the top, and took a long draw on the brutal liquid.

The remarkable quiet of the bullpen caught Fornell's attention, and he asked, "Where is everybody?"

"Ziva and McGee went to see Tony."

"Oh, yeah? How's he doin'?"

"Good. Tired, but good."

"Did he get the flowers we sent?"

"We?" Gibbs quirked.

Fornell rolled his eyes, waffled a bit, and said, "Okay, the flowers my assistant sent."

"You know me, Tobias," Gibbs said, taking a sip of coffee, "I'm not one for checking out the decor. Why do you want to know?"

"Wanna make sure Beverly isn't pocketing the money I gave her to buy the things," he said. Fornell pulled up Ziva's chair, plunked down into it, and crossed his ankles on the corner of Gibbs' desk. He did so enjoy these tete-a-tete he shared with Jethro. The very fact that he shared anything with the man, excepting, of course, an ex-wife, spoke of their mutual respect. They were old school, to be sure, whose work ethics were borne of the fractious American society in the early seventies, compounded by the deeply cynical and conspiratorial culture of the Cold War. They spoke the same language; viewed the world in the same sidelong manner. "Check on that the next time you see DiNozzo, would ya?"

"So," Gibbs began, "you came all the way over here to complain about yet another woman stealing from you?"

"Seems to be a pattern, doesn't it?"

"Uh, yeah."

"But, no. That's not the reason I'm here. When's the last time you ate dim sum?"

"Oh, I'd have to say never."

"Special Agent Gibbs, you haven't lived until you have," Fornell said, fishing around in his pocket for a paper. "Ping Pong Dim Sum in DC," he said, tossing the business card to Gibbs. "Try the number 44, the dumpling fix. I hear it's a certain Chinese embassy official's favorite lunch."

"Oh, yeah?" Gibbs said, picking up the card, noting the address. "Any particular day you think I should try the dim sum?"

"I would think Wednesday would be a good day."

"Might have to look into it," Gibbs said, slipping the business card into his inner jacket pocket. "Late lunch or early?"

"Probably around 11:30."

"Dim sum it is, then."

"So, what's your plan?" Fornell asked.

"I thought Mr. Liu and I would sit down, share a dumpling, and maybe have a chat about his...dim son," Gibbs said, peering over the rim of his coffee cup.

"It might just spook him, Jethro." Fornell absently scratched at his jawline, and said, "If you're not careful, he might just spirit the kid back to China."

"My bet is Dad already knows about Junior. I want Dad to know I know, too."

Tobias, lowering his feet to the ground, said, "The thing about fathers, Jethro, is they know just about everything they want to know."

"Yup, I remember."

"I know you do." Tobias stood, pressed his hands into his lower back and stretched with a groan.

"Gettin' old, Fornell?"

"Give it a couple years, Jethro," he said, straightening his suit coat. "We all succumb to the years sooner or later."

"I let the hair go white," Gibbs said, standing behind his desk, straight and without irony. "That's all the succumbing I intend to do."

Fornell chortled, offered his hand in camaraderie to Gibbs, and turned to leave the bullpen. "Have a good lunch."

"Hey!" Gibbs called out, bringing Fornell to a stop. "Next time you get coffee at a gas station, don't bring me the crap they sell to the customers. Bring me the stuff the mechanics drink." Fornell shook his head, waved him off, and Gibbs added, "I'm serious!"

When Fornell was gone, Gibbs looked over the business card, and said, "Better bring your antacids, Mr. Liu."

****/****

"**I hate these things,"** Ziva said, finishing tying the mask to her face.

"I know," Tim agreed. "Remind me a little too much of Agent Jardine."

"Yes!" Ziva said, spinning to meet his eye. "That's exactly why I dislike them so."

"Are you...Miss David?" a nurse asked, jogging the last few steps to catch up before Ziva and Tim entered Tony's room.

With a start and a scowl, Ziva said, "Yes. How can I..."

Pulling a slim stack of small envelopes from her pocket, the nurse handed them over, saying, "Jaynie said I should give these to you. They're from the flowers delivered to Mr. DiNozzo. Because he's in ICU-"

"He cannot have flowers in his room," Ziva said, nodding. She took the stack of notes, and smiled. "Yes. I understand. Thank you. Um, where did you...?"

"We gave them to patients who haven't had visitors," she said, exactly what Ziva was hoping to hear. Cocking her head to the side, the nurse pointed to the writing on the envelopes. "We tried to describe the flowers on each note."

"That's very kind," Ziva said, slipping them into her coat pocket. "I'll make sure Tony gets these, once he's awake."

"Oh," she said, looking over both their faces, "he's awake. Has been all day. He's just a little...loopy, that's all."

"Did you say...loopy?" Tim asked, squinting his eyes.

"Perfectly normal. An hour ago, we helped him get out of bed-"

"Tony got out of bed?" Tim asked, shocked. It had been so long.

"Really important for circulation," she told them. "Anyhow, that's always uncomfortable after surgery. We like to give the patients a little extra pain medication before, so he's...loopy."

Tim and Ziva shared a conspiratorial eye, and thanked the nurse.

Finding him cradled in a nest of wires, tubes and pillows, just as Abby had described in excruciating detail, Ziva and Tim padded into the room, in case Tony should be sleeping. The quiet beeps of the monitors met them. So, too, did the decided lack of the LVAD's whoosh and whirl.

They reached his side, and Ziva immediately went about looking for the good news-pink fingernails, not blue. Flesh-toned lips, not violet. A chest that rose and fell of its own accord, resolute and strong, without the quick bursts of tenuous gasps for air. All good. Other images, not so pleasant, remained. So pale, so thin. His mouth slung open, and the skin across his cheek bones and forehead seemed to cling to the attenuated surface. His musculature through his neck and chest, across his shoulders and arms, was disconcertingly atrophied. Gone were the round, firm deltoids, the bulging biceps, both of which she would never tell Tony she missed. Nor would she allow Tim to see how it bothered her that Tony's collar bone lifted up against the skin, how his ribs were visible where abdominal muscles and lats used to show through.

She rushed her hands behind her back, twisted her fingers together, and said, "He looks good."

"Good?" Tony's voice came. His eyes opened, took a moment to adjust to a hazy focus, and a grin poured over his lips. "I don't look good. I look great. Just ask Jaynie. She's been here off and on all day."

Relieved to hear the bluster in Tony's words, Tim took a deep breath, and said, "She has to, Tony. She's your nurse."

"Never underestimate the DiNozzo charm, Probie," he said, finding it difficult to lick his dry lips through the medication. "It just oozes out like...like..." Tony's eyes slid shut.

Ziva turned to Tim, and said, "Perhaps we should-"

"Speaking of oozing," Tony said, his eyes suddenly wide, glazed over with narcotics. "I sat in a chair today, Ziva. Me. In a chair."

"We heard," she said, coming closer and taking his hand. "What does this have to do with oozing?"

Tony smiled, a chuckle spilled over his lips, and he said, "You should have seen it, McQueasy. The reason they sit you up is to drain all the blood that's been sitting in your chest. If I hadn't been so hopped up on meds, I'da been pretty freaked out. I mean, it was just-"

"Yes, I get the picture, Tony," Tim said, biting back at his desire to retch.

Tony continued to giggle, while his eyes fought against sleep.

"You are feeling well, then?" Ziva asked, and silently berated herself for asking such a banal question.

"Don't really feel anything at all," Tony said. And then his eyes were on her, and his hand grasped hers. "Did I see you last night? Late. Like, in the middle of the night."

Ziva was taken aback. She blinked, and said, "You must have been dreaming."

"Dreaming," he whispered, letting his eyes close once again. His lips eased into a soft smile. "Wouldn't be the first time I had a dream about you, Z-"

"So, Tony," she interjected before he could incriminate himself further, "they say you shall be leaving CICU soon."

"That's what they tell me," he said. She watched his Adam's apple, so pronounced in his neck, rise and fall. "Pudding. That's a funny word, isn't it, Ziva?"

"Um, yes. I suppose it is," she said, smiling behind her mask.

"Puuuuuuuding," he intoned.

Tim looked to Ziva, and said, "He's zonked."

"Completely," she said.

Tony pried his eyes open once again, but they soon rolled shut, and said, "Not that I don't love that you're here, but...I'm a little...punky, ya know?"

"Yes, we can see that," Ziva told him, rubbing her thumb across his warm hand. "We'll come back tomorrow."

"Do you need anything, Ton?" Tim asked, patting his leg beneath the cotton blanket.

"Pudding..."

Tim frowned, and he asked Ziva, "Does he want pudding, or is he still just babbling?"

"With Tony, this is never an easy call." She leaned toward him, brushed his hair from his forehead and said, "Tomorrow we shall return. Sleep well."

"I...think I already...am," he whispered. Ziva began to loosen her hold on his hand, when Tony grasped it. She glanced at their joining and then at his eyes, open and remarkably clear. "I wasn't dreaming," he told her. "You were there."

She tried to deny his memory, shook her head, and said, "No. You were... You couldn't have-"

"I woke up, and you were there, in my room. I remember. It wasn't a dream," he said, pulling their conjoined hands to his chest. Ziva was careful to keep them from his dressings. Sleep began to overtake him once again, and he whispered, "Thank you."

She swallowed, nodded, and pulsed her fingers across his hand. "I will see you tomorrow."

"Yes, you will," he whispered, but before his final words could be articulated, he was asleep. His embrace went limp, and his breathing evened out, and Ziva replaced his hand on the pillow next to his body.

"He really does look good," Tim said, relieved to have found their friend so well.

Ziva joined him at the foot of Tony's bed, and found a modicum of comfort in the familiar-his straight, white teeth, that angular nose, the same scar under his chin. So many changes, and yet so many things had remained the same.

A partnership. A friendship.

How often had she received text messages from him at ungodly hours of the night, all thinly disguised attempts to reach out to a friend when the darkness of night and persistent memories of Jenny seemed to smother him? How many calls had she taken asking if she'd ever seen this movie or that documentary, most during those too quiet passages of the late evening, when sleep meant loneliness and pain in the wake of Jeanne?

That Ziva had stolen into his room, as silent as a shadow, and sat with him for one desperate hour in the CICU, humming to him, stroking his wrist, seemed all together appropriate and all together familiar.

It is is what partners do for each other, she had rationalized.

More importantly, it was what she had needed to do for her friend.

"Ready?" Tim asked, edging toward the door.

Ziva nodded. "Yes."

The soft pings of the monitors and Tony's quiet breathing ushered them out.


	16. Chapter 16

Happy Second Thanksgiving with this story. I swear I never expected to be writing it this long...

Thank you to all who keep reading, keep sending me wonderful feedback, and who rec this strange little tale on other sites and forums. I am, as always, incredibly appreciative and awed by your kindness.

Only two more chapters to go. I have a clear vision of them, but we'll see what kind of time I will have in the next month.

Until then, peace. Be well. And thank you for your continued support.

**The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.**

So Tony had been told. He was pretty sure that person never had to begin a journey with four IV's emptying into his body, three chest tubes poking out of his gut, a PICC line boarded to his arm, all while pushing a twenty-pound telemetry unit hooked to lead lines across his chest, and pulling an oxygen canister on wheels. Not to mention sporting a bandage over an eight-inch incision that covered a sternum held together by chicken wire. At least that's how it felt to Tony.

So when Dorothy breezed into the room while Ducky and Abby were visiting and told Tony it was time to take a walk, the hush that came over the room was thick with incredulity.

Still, it was a beginning, and if enduring the excruciating pain of getting out of bed meant he was that much closer to getting out of the hospital, then bring it on, one single step at a time.

Yeah, he had stood the night before. Stood and even sat in a chair, or so they told him, but he had been fairly well juiced, and for the life of him, he couldn't remember it.

"How bad can it be?" Dorothy asked, lowering his hand rail. "Without the Foley catheter, this will be fun."

"Ha, fun," Tony sniggered, already starting to sweat. "Yeah, pretty much your classic barrel of monkeys, eh, Dorothy."

"Something like that."

Ten short minutes later, Tony was sitting on the edge of his bed, his eyes closed, trying to recuperate from the effort and the pain of swiveling his legs out of bed and his torso off the mattress.

"Ya'll right?" Dorothy asked, logging in his vital signs on his records.

Tony nodded, his hand fisting the bedding below him, while he gingerly protected his boarded arm.

"I think...we're all set," she said, typing in the last of his readings.

Abby kept her eye on him, sitting there, so tenuous in his perch. His hair, unkempt and uncharacteristically shaggy, stood flattened against the back of his head or parted in erratic patterns. It was then that she remembered what she had with her. Bounding from her chair, she said, "Look what I brought from home. Well, from the office, which is like a second home, if you're not counting my home in the city. Or in New Orleans, which...is... I mean, why would you." From behind her back, she pulled a black baseball hat, the letters NCIS emblazoned on the front. Careful not to disturb the oxygen cannula draped over his ears, Abby placed the cap on his head. His hair stuck out in shocks under the brim, and Abby said, "Here. Let me just... Um..." She smoothed back the long strands that spilled over his ears, and was about to comb back his unruly bangs when she saw his brow furrow.

"Is it really that bad?" he asked, reaching to touch the straggles against his neck.

"No. I mean, well, no," she said, eyes wide with protective deception. "It's...messy, that's all. But, messy can be good!"

"Okay, hold on," he said, "are we talking well-coiffed, Robert Pattinson-messy, or mugshot-Nick Nolte-gawd-what-a-mess...messy?"

"Um," Abby began, and turned to Dorothy. "So, how far are we going?"

Dorothy came round to adjust his oxygen cannula, cinching it tighter under his chin, and said, "I think we'll make a loop of the room. Just here to the door and back. Doctor Mallard, would you help me out here?"

"Certainly, my dear," the older gentleman said, rising to meet her. "How can I be of assistance?"

"I'm going to support his arm from this side and lift," she said, cupping his elbow, while his boarded arm extended out, his strapped-down fingers waggling, trying to get some blood flowing to the tips. "If you could lift from your side..."

"It would be my distinct pleasure," Ducky said, offering Tony his hand. "As they say in Edinburgh, 'Glasses and lasses are bruckle ware!' I assure you, lad, the eyes may be weak, but the back is strong."

"Good to know, Duck. I got no idea what you're talking about, but I like it," Tony said, sliding his hand into Ducky's. "Hey, you'd tell me if I looked bad, wouldn't ya?"

"Of course, I would," Ducky told him, cuffing his upper arm.

Tony gripped Ducky's hand more completely, and said, "Then tell me- how do I look?"

Ducky took in the mussed hair, the scruffy face, the dark-smudged eyes, and, realizing avoidance was sometimes the kinder cousin of tact, also turned his attention to Dorothy. "Eh, am I doing this correctly?" he asked, nodding to the junction of his hand and Tony's.

"You're doing just fine," she said, quashing a laugh, hooking her arm around Tony's waist. "How ya doing? Ready to go for a walk?"

"Ready as I'll ever be, considering I may or may not look like James Brown on a bender," he said, smirking.

"Then let's go," Dorothy told him, widening her stance in preparation for accepting his weight.

Reaffirming his grip on Tony, and anchoring his hand around his friend's arm, Ducky also adjusted his base so that he and Dorothy might take the brunt of the burden. "Let us do the work, my boy. You are, as they say, in good hands."

"Got it, Duck." Tony's hand shook in Ducky's; he concentrated on breathing through the pain he knew would be coming, through the last curls of pain that came from sitting up. With absolutely no self-consciousness about having a senior citizen hold his hand while a woman cradled his elbow, Tony inched forward, leveraging his hips to the edge of the bed.

"Are we ready?" Dorothy asked.

Abby nodded, and said, "I think so." When three sets of eyes lit on her, she blinked, and said, "Oh. Sorry. You were probably asking Tony."

"Here we go," Dorothy said, beginning to exert pressure under Tony's arm, followed by Ducky.

Off the mattress now, and Tony felt his thighs bloom, his knees wobble. His ribcage expanded with each inch he was raised. Knives of pain scoured his sternum, acutely following the fresh incision. Could he make it? _Was it too early?_ he wanted to ask. He rounded out his lips and focused on breathing, and still he rose.

"You're doing marvelously," Ducky said, peering into Tony's distant eyes, wondering just how much pain the man must be feeling.

A moan escaped Tony's lips, and his shoulders continued to lift. Trying to hold his body taut, an almost impossible feat, Tony sucked in his lower lip and concentrated on straightening out his legs. Almost there. Words of encouragement floated around him, none of which he could answer. Would his incision hold? Would the wires that laced his sternum together pop from the torquing? A sheen of sweat prickled his forehead.

"Keep going," Dorothy said, her hand on his waist.

Would this be the moment they found out one of the sutures in his heart wasn't strong enough? What would happen, he worried, if his legs, atrophied and thin, couldn't support him? His pulse began to rise.

"There ya go," Dorothy said, a quick peek at his blood pressure readings, at the elevated heart rate. Nothing out of the ordinary. "Press your hips forward, just a tad. Okay, you're there!"

Standing. He was standing. "I'll be damned," he whispered. The pain dialing down with each second he stood still, Tony breathed. Just breathed. His eyes blinked, shocked that he was perpendicular with the ground. He fanned his fingers in Ducky's hand, tension rippling up his arm.

"How do you feel?" Dorothy asked, scanning his face for signs of distress.

"Um," he muttered while any number of responses swirled through his mind. Was there a predominant concern that overrode any other ache? No. But there was one sensation that bothered him. "Are my pants falling down?"

Dorothy asked Abby to take her place at Tony's side. Abby stepped next to Tony, took hold of his elbow, slid her hand around his waist for support, and touched her head to his shoulder. "You look amazing."

"You're lying, but I'll take it," Tony said, glancing at her raven hair, then down at Dorothy's auburn tresses angled to his waist. Any other time, and he'd smile and find some lascivious comment to make, but not so much at the moment.

When she pulled up the front of his gown, Dorothy found that his waistband had slipped past his hip. "Yeah, we need some adjustment here," she said, careful not to jostle the drainage lines sprouting from his upper abdomen, but when her wrist bumped one of the plastic tubes, Tony winced, and Dorothy froze. He mouthed that he was okay, and Ducky felt the man's hand clench his own. "We're good now," Dorothy said, smoothing down his gown, gathering all the leads to one side where they swung like a rope ladder to the telemetry unit. "Time to walk. Go ahead and grab hold of the pole."

Ducky extracted his hand from Tony's, anchoring it instead around his forearm. Tony reached out, fingers trembling, and wrapped his hand around the metal surface. The cool touch was a welcome sensation, and he breathed again, swallowing hard.

"I'll take your place, Doctor Mallard," Dorothy said, "if you'll lead us out with Tony's oxygen tank."

"By all means," Ducky said, jostling his position, making room for the nurse, while still maintaining his hold on Tony.

When she had moved in, when she had attached her support to his forearm and waist, she told him, "Okay, let's begin."

"How?" Tony asked, not sure if he'd actually spoken the word aloud.

"One inch at a time. Just one inch at a time," she said, patting his back.

"One inch at a time. Very Tony DaMato," Tony said, eyeing the expanse of floor between him and the door, cavernous in his mind. "Al Pacino plays Coach DaMato in 'Any Given Sunday.' Gives a rousing speech before the big game. 'We're in hell right now, gentlemen, believe me. Or we can climb our way outta hell, one inch at a time.' Good stuff, if you like movies about football, which, ya know, obviously, I do."

Dorothy nodded, and said, "I'll have to watch that sometime, but for now, let's get going."

Tony squinted, focusing on that door, so far away, and said, "Can't a guy just stand here a minute and enjoy the view?"

Abby's attention shifted from Tony to Ducky to Dorothy, waiting for what would happen.

"Come on, now," said Dorothy, as she anchored her hip to Tony's, hoping to urge him to take a step. "Slide your foot forward."

Tony let loose a wholly inappropriate chuckle, and said, "Would you believe I don't remember how?" Ducky, whose learned mind conjured up the word sublimation, shared a concerned look with Abby, and Tony thought that maybe admitting his fear wasn't as funny as he thought it would be. When his scared eyes met Dorothy's, she nodded and smiled. Her warm hand rubbed circles on his back. He swallowed, and said, "It's been a while, you know?"

"You're doing just fine," she said. It was nothing new, transplant patients who were afraid to take their first steps. Afraid that at any minute their immune system would cease to provide a hospitable place for this new organ. Afraid that those breathless days and sleepless nights might come again. All perfectly common. It was her job to usher him through the initial days of this new life, and it all began with these first steps. "Slide your foot forward. There ya go."

"You can do it, Anthony," Ducky whispered, rattling a fist of solidarity toward him.

"One inch at a time," Tony muttered to himself. He filled his mouth with air, he regripped the telemetry pole, and put his weight into it. The wheels squeaked against the linoleum, and the incremental momentum forced him to follow along.

"You're doing it," Abby said, scooting alongside him.

Al Pacino's voice wafted through Tony's mind, saying, _"You know, when you get old in life, you find out life's this game of inches. The inches we need are everywhere around us._"

Five feet from his bed, and Tony was on his way. His feet shifted across the floor, IV bags swung on their loops, and the entourage proceeded, glacial but no less momentous.

And as they walked, Abby rubbed his shoulder, unaware and unrelenting. Until she realized that he might think it was cloying, that her ministrations were patronizing. With a start, she pulled her hand away and couldn't figure out where to put it instead.

"Don't stop," Tony whispered, his eyes peeled to the door, now ten feet away. He needed her touch. In it was the silent message that he could make it to the door, to the next door, to the next day, to next year. For her part, Abby needed to tell him all those things, so she reached up and began the small, warm circles again.

A nurse passed by in the hall, doubled back, and smiled broadly at Tony. "Well, look at you!"

"Hey, Jaynie," Tony said. _Slide the foot; slide the other; breathe..._

"First time out of bed?" she asked, stepping into the room.

"First time I remember." Another twelve inches behind him, and he began to believe he could do it.

Jaynie grasped his boarded fingers, winked at him, and said, "I'll come check on you later."

"I'll be here," Tony told her, continuing his progress.

Ducky said goodbye to the nurse, and then made sure there were no obstructions in Tony's path. He took in the man's expression, certainly focused on his goal, but with a glaze of discomfort, apprehension. Slack jawed, eyes a little too wide, Tony persevered toward the door, and Ducky felt a wellspring of pride for the man. "If only Jethro could see this."

"See what, Duck?" Filling the doorway, Gibbs pinned his shoulder into the frame and smiled a crooked grin at Tony.

The corners of Tony's mouth curled up, his aching shoulders squared, just a touch, and he said, "What are you doing here, Boss?"

"What, and miss the maiden voyage?"

"You calling me a woman?" Tony sniggered, inching forward, three feet from the door.

Gibbs chuckled, stuck out his hand, and said, "You look good, DiNozzo."

An appreciable distance still separated them, but Tony was not about to disrespect the man. He let go of the pole, slogged ahead, and took the proffered hand, much to Dorothy's chagrin. Both she and Abby increased their grip on him, and Gibbs immediately understood the situation. Taking hold of Tony's hand, Gibbs also anchored a palm under his forearm, never giving away he was doing more than just shaking his friend's hand.

"I hate to break it up, but we're on a roll," Dorothy said, coming to the front. She shared a peck on the cheek with Gibbs, and brought Tony's telemetry pole round in an arc. Ducky followed behind her, telling Gibbs he would not be receiving the same greeting, and the entire group made a sweeping curve, with Gibbs falling into Dorothy's place. "How are you, Tony?" Dorothy asked, checking his pulse, his blood pressure, and all other readings at this, their halfway point.

Tony licked his dry lips, waved his cold fingers, and said, "Okay, I guess. Maybe a little tired."

"Well, you're doing just great. Keep going," Dorothy said.

Abby could feel the added weight in her hand, proof that Tony was becoming fatigued, so she wove her arm across his back and clasped her hand to his side. In doing so, she brushed against Gibbs' arm, clapped under Tony's forearm. "Isn't this incredible?" she asked.

Gibbs glanced at her, and in doing saw caught a glimpse of Tony's back, at the nubby spine. "Yeah," he told her. "Incredible."

Five more feet, and Tony began to feel every footfall. His lower back ached; his posture began to stoop; his hand wrapped around the chrome began to slip. But, he had already walked twenty feet, fifteen feet there, five to this point. No stranger to pushing his body to its limits, Tony concentrated on his goal. To hell with the rest.

Having lead the pack, Ducky swerved around the edge of his bed, wanting to make sure he gave the entire group plenty of room to maneuver Tony back in place. "Well done, lad. Well done."

"Exactly," Abby said, watching his expression.

"A few more feet," Dorothy prodded him, and Gibbs added his sentiments by clapping his hand to Tony's arm and nodding, all the while creeping along next to his very special agent.

The thought that his friends, his teammates were shoring him up, taking the same first steps with him was not lost on Tony. Their touch and their encouragement had seen him through the dark days, through the harrowing hours after each procedure, each lab result, each surgery. Here they were again, and Tony resolved to make them proud. Two feet from his bed, and still Tony surged ahead.

At the foot of his bed, Tony abruptly stopped, his eyes peeled on the far wall, to the window, glaringly bright, as if the embrace of that light held him in suspension.

Dorothy paused, waited for Tony to move, to speak, to do something. When all that took place was a shifting of his hand on the telemetry pole, when all the rest stared at her waiting for instruction, she said, "Tony? You okay?"

"Um," he muttered, staring straight ahead. "Um…"

"Look," Dorothy said, turning the pole toward the bed, "you've put in your thirty feet. That's a good start, why don't you—"

"No," Jethro interjected. He knew what Tony was seeing. He knew that constricting feeling of being enclosed, of being held captive, of being restricted to a room that was void of air, of freedom. That need to escape the room, your own skin. He knew, and so he whispered to Tony, "Go ahead. You'll make it."

Tony's socked foot slid out, and then the next. He dabbed at his chapped lips with his parched tongue. A cold spray of perspiration dotted his neck, his back, his arms. Around the bed now, and his hands began to slip down the pole. Gibbs lifted it back in place, patted his bicep, so diminished, and willed him to keep going. So close to the window now, Tony could feel the ambient light warm his skin. Ducky shifted out of the way, not too far that the oxygen line had to stretch, but enough to let Tony and his sentinels pass by.

And he shuffled, struggled, dug down and found a reserve he hadn't tapped since those days in Columbus, Ohio. Tony rolled the telemetry pole to the side, out of the way, and stretched his fingers toward the windowsill.

"_On this team, we fight for that inch. On this team, we tear ourselves and everyone else around us to pieces for that inch_," Al Pacino reminded him. "_We claw with our fingernails for that inch, because we know when we add up all those inches, that's gonna make the fuckin' difference between winning and losing! Between livin' and dyin'!_"

Ducky fought against the constriction in his throat. Here was a man who had been, not three days earlier, gasping for perhaps his last breaths, and now... Now he was reaching for a destination, not because he needed to, but because he _wanted_ to. The dichotomy of images left him awed.

"I got ya," Gibbs whispered next to Tony's ear, brushing lines and IV-pole feet out of his friend's way with a shoe. He guided Tony's trembling hand to the sill, took those last few tenacious steps with him, and then dropped back, placing a broad palm across the man's back and one around his arm, just in case. He'd be fine, Gibbs knew. Tony would want this time to simply stand, to forget that he was tethered to a king's ransom worth of cardiac machines and medications, to a tube that fed invisible molecules of oxygen to his blood supply.

The sun radiating through the window was a salve on Tony's skin. He could feel it penetrate his face, his neck, his hands and arms. How often had he watched the sun wheel across the sky and roll away into night from his bed? How many phases of the moon had he woken to, alone, wracked with pain, trembling with unexplainable fear? And now? Standing. Able to breathe. Able to remember what it was like to just...be. He shook his head, and watched the life he once knew amble on below him. He marveled at such a thing as a meter maid sticking tickets on windshields. This ordinary thing-standing at a window, with nothing between him and the work-a-day, glorious world but a double-pane of glass, touched something deep within, and it thrummed with life.

The blinding light of the sunshine burned his eyes, or at least that's how Tony would explain his squint, the sudden dampness gathered along his lash line. He rounded out his lips, breathed slowly and deliberately, nodded, then nodded again. Said, "Nice day, huh, Boss?"

"Yup, DiNozzo," Gibbs told him, watching a stream of cars glide through a well-manicured roundabout five stories below, sharing in the facade that this was just an unexceptional morning. "Nice day."

Abby, never wavering in her position of post, lay her head against his shoulder and watched the necessarily oblivious world go about its day, blissfully ignorant of the significant, extraordinary feat that had just occurred, high above in a small hospital room.

Tony splayed his fingers against the black windowsill, enjoying the warmth, the exuberance of achievement. And of the ordinary.

"Yeah, it's a nice day," Tony said, smiling, and for the first time in months, Abby thrilled in the sighting of one good dimple. She sighed, content and at peace.

Months later, none of the people gathered would be able to recall the weather outside that window, or the red balloon that ascended the sky, free from its owners grasp, or the time of day they had witnessed the hegira from sickness to health. They would only remember this show of what is the best in humanity, the presence of the indomitable soul, of a gathering of companions willing to walk beside their friend, an inch at a time.

And it all started with one step.

**He knew where to look for the man.**

The front seats were for those who liked to be seen through the floor to ceiling windows. The seats in the middle of the dining room were for families and for starlets whose celebrity wasn't bright enough to warrant a front-row seat, but whose voices and gesticulations were just loud enough to draw much of the attention in the room. There were private rooms for those who were so high powered they needed to be spirited in through the kitchen, away from the suspect crowd. Business men and women, working their way up to those private rooms, sat hunched over their sushi at the bar, devouring their lunches along with the Wall Street Journals on their smart phones. And then there were the seats for the ladies who lunch, where they sipped light, delicate teas, with fruity accents of cucumbers and melons.

But Gibbs simply strode by all these sections. No, a man such as Liu, a well-connected embassy official, would sit discretely in the back, away from the bottom-lit tables and the glass installations, away from the steam-filled kitchen windows and the frenetic cocktail bar. He'd sit in a table for two, where only one seat was occupied. His body guards would be nearby, but not so much that one couldn't enjoy a lunch in relative peace.

This is where Gibbs found him.

"Mr. Liu," Gibbs said, exposing his ID, popping it from one side to the other, "Senior Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS."

Liu, unimpressed with yet another American agency, cast a dispassionate eye on the badge, and went about his lunch.

Gibbs smiled, already sick of the arrogance, slid his ID back into his pocket, and slid a photo out. "Does this man look familiar to you?" he asked, holding the picture of Justin Chen.

Liu barely glanced at the photo. "No," he said, lifting the top off a bamboo steamer.

"Then how about this one?"

Again a cursory look, but when the embassy official took a second look, he recognized his son. Placing the top back on the steamer, Liu drilled Gibbs with an icy stare, which garnered the attention of his body guards.

"We can do this quietly," Gibbs told him, tossing the photos onto the table, "or we can give everyone in this restaurant a story to go home with. Your choice." For a moment, Liu glared at this man with the glass-blue eyes, assessing his validity, and then waved off his men. He motioned for Gibbs to take the empty seat, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, and waited for him to begin.

"His name," Gibbs began, tapping the photo, "was Justin Chen. He had been taking money in exchange for access to the NCIS database. When he reneged on his part of the bargain, Chen was murdered."

"Then it would seem this situation has more to do with you than with me," Liu said, crossing his arms.

Gibbs anchored both elbows on the table, tented his hands, and quietly said, "I'd say it's a problem for the both of us. I have substantial evidence to suggest that your son is responsible for Chen's death." Gibbs stared down the man, watching for any tells, for any sign, miniscule and undetectable by the untrained eye, that Liu knew of his son's sordid activities. When color began to bloom in the man's face, Gibbs had his answer. "I came to you out of courtesy because you're the boy's father. I came to ask your permission to talk to your son."

"Why should I offer you that?" The lines around Liu's mouth deepened as the corners collapsed. His eyes, half-lidded with fury, glowered over the tops of his glasses.

Gibbs narrowed his eyes accordingly, pulled an extra photo from his pocket, the one of Chen's dismembered torso, and pushed it across the table, right next to Liu's parcels of steamed sui mai. "Because this can't go unanswered. Now, I can have my State Department contact your State Department, but you need to know, I will bring your son in, one way or another, and he and I will talk." The older Liu ground his teeth together; the muscles in his jaw vibrated. Gibbs knew he had the man on the edge, and so he tucked the photos away inside the safe confines of his coat, and softened his voice. "You have my word that your son will not be harmed."

"And why should I trust you?" Liu ground out.

"You have no reason to," Gibbs said. "But, there's a family in Illinois who's lost their son, and as a father yourself, you can understand-they deserve some answers." Liu's eyes lowered, a fraction of an inch, and Gibbs found his entry. Pushing away from the table, he squared out his shoulders, back straight against the chair, and said, "We both know your son enjoys diplomatic immunity, but this kind of trouble...this kind of stink, well, it tends to envelope everyone around it." Gibbs pulled a business card from his wallet, slid it to Mr. Liu, who left it on the table, and said, "If I don't hear from you by the end of the week, I'll have your son picked up." When no answer came from the other side of the table, Gibbs stood, straightened his collar, and wished the silent, pale man a good lunch.

**It was just a matter of time before she showed up.** After all, she had spent years working in DC hospitals. So, she had walked away from her practice. She still had friends in the business, and one would tell another that a certain NCIS agent was in the Cardiac-Care Unit, and that one person would tell another, until finally, the word would find her.

But she wouldn't come immediately. To run to his side would mean she still cared, which she didn't. However, after a few days, she would come.

So when she walked through his door, her hands in tight fists deep inside her coat pockets, her lips in an even tighter line, it didn't come as a complete surprise to Tony.

"Hi, Jeanne," he said, a smile fluttering across his lips, vacillating between being touched by her presence and embarrassed by his present state.

She didn't acknowledge the greeting, only took in the IV bags hanging above him, the display from the EKG, the blood pressure and pulse readings.

Tony cleared his throat, uncomfortable but not unfamiliar with her silence. "You look good, Jeanne. I mean, you always look good. I, on the other hand, probably don't."

With her hands pressed into her pockets, and her coat pulled tight against her neck, Jeanne stepped to the side of his bed and jutted forth her jaw, one eyebrow raised in defiance. Still, she would not make eye contact with him.

Tony drummed his fingers against his abdomen, a nervous habit, and went for charming laughter. "Okay, so, yeah, I bet you're wondering how I-"

"Cardiomyopathy," she said, eyeing his pain medication dispenser.

Tony laughed again, and said, "Of course you'd know. Yeah, well, let me tell ya-it's one helluva virus, this cardiomyopathic bug. Next time they say 'Wash your hands for twenty seconds,' I plan to go for thirty. Thirty-five, if I have the time. In fact-"

"When they told me you had a heart transplant," she said, instantly putting an end to Tony's embarrassed rant, "I thought, why him?"

"Because my heart was the size of a Sunday ham," Tony told her, trying to stay ahead of the curve, and finding it impossible.

"I mean," she went on, running her tongue along the bottom of her teeth, her musculature taut with indignation, "I find it ironic, ya know? You...destroyed me, left me crushed, and you're the one who gets the new heart."

A chill skittered across Tony's body, and he reached for the call button. "Believe me, Jeanne, I never meant to-"

"To hurt me, Tony?" she interjected, finally laying arctic eyes on him, and Tony immediately experienced the frost. "Funny, I've heard that before, but it doesn't help. It never has."

"Why did you come, Jeanne?" Tony asked, his fingers searching for the call button. _Where was it?_

"To get what I deserve, what you were never able to give me, but what you so callously took from me."

Tony's brow furrowed, his pulse began to rise. "Jeanne, I...I..."

"The way I see it," she went on, unsnapping the top of his gown, "you don't deserve this heart, but I, oh, I do."

Tony reached for her hand, but she was so strong, so determined. He lifted his head from the pillow, his heart hammering inside his chest. "Jeanne, don't do this. Don't-"

"You owe me, Tony," she said, coupled with a sarcastic dip of the head. Jamming her fingers into his incision, Jeanne spread open his sternum, and Tony screamed out in agony.

"Tony?"

Eyes flew open to an empty room; his mouth chewed on air that wouldn't come fast enough.

"Tony."

His trembling fingers clenched the front of this gown, the arm of his chair.

"Tony," Dorothy said, placing a full oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, "breathe. Slowly. Just calm down. You're okay."

And as he tried to do just that, fogging the mask with quick, rapid breaths, Tony padded the bandage covering his incision. It was then the fiery pain singed his nerves. He screwed shut his eyes and groaned out loud. Electric pain riveted his chest, back to front, front to back.

Dorothy grabbed the pillow from his bed and pressed it against his torso. "Here ya go."

Tony clenched the pillow to his chest, compressing the aching incision. He pressed his head into the back of his chair, drew in air through his nose, through his rounded lips, through his clenched teeth.

Dorothy touched her fingers to his carotid artery and took his pulse, and as she did, it began to slow. "Good. You're doing fine."

"Are you sure?" he asked, his face etched with pain. "You sure I'm...not...having a heart attack? I mean, 'cause...this isn't good."

Dorothy smiled, patted his shoulder, and assured him he wasn't.

He cleared his throat, trying not to cough. Part of the fun, having to cough while his chest was still very much healing, Tony spread his whole hand and forearm across the pillow, took a shallow breath, and tried, tried not to cough too hard. The explosive nature of the movement sent another round of fresh agony across the abused muscles and bifurcated bones.

"Do you need something for the pain?" she asked.

His eyes squeezed shut, lines drawing away from the corners, Tony gave it a minute before answering. "Nah. I think... I think I'm..." And then he was staring at her, begging for answers. "You sure I'm not in rejection?"

"You're not in rejection," she said.

"Yeah, but...how do you know?" he asked, realizing his pain had diminished, so he dropped the pillow into his lap. "Really. You don't know. I could be."

"No, you're not," Dorothy said. "Look, I know what you need. I'll be right back."

Watching her stride from the room, Tony attempted to relax. He closed his eyes, and when he did, vestiges of Jeanne's face sifted through his mind, like smoke that lingers after the fire is gone, intangible and incorporeal. Why, after all these years, was she spending time haunting his dreams? What was his subconscious trying to tell him, not that he really ever listened to his subconscious?

"Here," Dorothy said, and Tony opened his eyes. Before him was a red popsicle, the wrapper neatly folded around the stick.

He glanced up at the older woman, blinked, and said, "I kind of thought you'd be bringing back drugs. Or...ten-year-old Scotch. A popsicle?"

"Tony, there are a few things I know," she said, taking a seat on his bed, enjoying her half of the frozen dessert. "One, you're not in rejection."

"How do you know?"

"Your pulse is strong, your enzymes are fine, your ejection factor is right where it should be, you don't have a fever, and...and I just know. You're going to have to trust me on this one," she said, licking the popsicle. "Also, you're not throwing an embolism because you'd be dead by now."

"Okay, well, that's one I hadn't considered," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Thanks for adding it to my 'things that keep me awake at night' list."

"And the other thing I know-that your surgeon doesn't even know-is this: Red popsicles make everything better."

Tony bit off the tip of his, chewed on the mushy ice, and considered her point. He did feel a little better, and the images of Jeanne had nearly dissipated from his mind. Maybe Dorothy was right. "Okay, but," he said, taking another bite, "I hate to be picky, but I really prefer grape."

Dorothy tucked her foot under her knee, shook her head, and said, "Nope. Has to be red. Someday I'm going to write a PhD dissertation about the mystical, medicinal red popsicle."

"You mean in your spare time," Tony said, licking his popsicle. "By the way, do you ever go home?"

"Actually, I was on my way when I saw you slump in your chair. You jerked awake. That's why you woke up in so much pain, by the way."

Tony thought that one over. It was possible. He had gone for his evening walk, had asked the other nurse, Maggie, to let him sit in the chair for a while, and he must have fallen asleep. "Ha. Okay..." He shrugged his shoulders, quirked half a smile, and bobbled his head. "I suppose that makes sense. I was having a dream."

"Oh, yeah? Nice dream, or nightmare?"

"Definitely nightmare," Tony said, catching drops of liquid off the bottom of his popsicle.

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Not much to talk about. Old girlfriend. The whole 'broken heart' metaphor playing out in my sleep. In technicolor. Directed by John Carpenter."

"How long ago did you break up?" Dorothy asked.

Trying to keep the last bit from sliding off the stick and onto the front of his gown, Tony cupped a hand under his popsicle. "I don't know. Couple years. Four years, I guess."

"Any relationships since that one?"

A half-melted chunk fell into his palm, and Tony popped it into his mouth. "Why the questions about my romantic life all of the sudden?"

"Because it's time," she told him.

"Time? What...time?" he asked.

"Time to talk about your life, the one outside this hospital room."

Tony laughed, incredulous of such a thing. "Yeah, well, we'll see."

Dorothy dumped the rest of her popsicle into an empty cup, brushed off her hands, and smiled. "It's time for 'that' talk, Tony," she said, jumping from the bed, offering the cup for Tony to place his empty stick. "Your life, if you don't already know it, has changed forever."

"Yeah, I kinda got that."

"Tomorrow, you'll start cardiac rehab, which includes learning about all your medications. You're going to have to learn to keep notes about your diet, your weight, your blood pressure, all on a daily basis. But the most important thing you're going to have to learn is this-life goes on. Your life, all the most...banal, boring elements will move forward."

"Okay, but," he said, shifting in his chair, stretching his back muscles, "when? Not that I'm in a hurry, but I'm kind of in a hurry."

"About the same time you forget that you have a donor heart in your chest," she said.

Tony laughed, and said, "Yeah. That's a... Yeah, I can see that happening, oh, never."

"It will happen," she said, laying soft, persuasive eyes on him. "And you know when it will happen? When you're at work, or when you're with a friend, or with that...special someone. It'll happen. Count on it."

"And you know this like you know that red popsicles make you feel better," he said.

"Do you feel better?" she asked.

Tony smiled. "Yeah, I guess I do."

"Never question me," she warned. "Speaking of questions, what's the deal with you and Ziva?"

Tony choked a bit, then coughed before he could press the pillow to his chest. Rolling his eyes and groaning through the pain, Tony rode it out. "Hey, you know what? Why don't ya go ahead and make the next popsicle Percocet flavored."

"Do you need your PCA button?" Dorothy asked, picking up the controller.

His pain eased, and Tony clicked his teeth together, popped his lips, and sighed. "No. Not right now. I may rock it before bed, but not now."

"Well, that's good," Dorothy said, sporting a certain glimmer in her eye, "because, see, what I did was hit a nerve, and Percocet doesn't work on that kind of discomfort."

"Ha, tricky," Tony chuckled. He kept his eye trained on the nurse, and realized she wasn't going to let the topic drop. "What do you mean? There's nothing... Ziva and I are... We're partners, that's all."

"Oh, come on!" she said. "I've seen the way you look at her, and I've also seen how she looks at you. There's something there."

Tony outright laughed, and then wished he hadn't. "Look, okay, so, yeah, Ziva is beautiful. When she talks...Well, I imagine if fan dancers had their own dialect, it would sound like Ziva. But me and Ziva? See, that's just... That's just...nutty. Wack-a-doo."

"Are you sure? I think you two would make a great hook-up," Dorothy taunted.

How could he explain it to her? His brow knit together, and he scratched his jaw. Finally, an image came to mind, and he shared it with his nurse. "Hooking up with Ziva would very much be like a male praying mantis hooking up with his dream mantis."

Dorothy wagged her finger at him, a facetious chastisement, and said, "You can't tell me you've never considered it."

"No," Tony said, raking his fingers through his hair, "you're right. I've considered it. I mean, come on, she's an Israeli version of every Angelina Jolie action hero. What warm-blooded man out there wouldn't consider it, but..."

"But, what?"

He'd asked himself the same question hundreds, thousands of times before. After all, he'd had a lot of time on his hands as of late. He had worked through every rendition of every situation of every scenario, and every time it came out the same way.

Absolute bliss.

Followed by angry words, a few broken bones, some spilled blood, and usually one or two bombs having to be disarmed.

Okay, there was always the obligatory "Mr. and Mrs. Smith" scene where he and Ziva would destroy either his apartment or hers, or sometimes tumble from one to the other. And somewhere in that carnage, hands would find hair, lips would find skin, mouths would find they were made for each other.

Again with the absolute bliss.

"But, it'll never happen," Tony told her, wiping the sheen of sweat from his upper lip.

Dorothy giggled, and said, "Give me one good reason."

"Because I need her more than I want her," he said, and that was the end of Dorothy's questions.

She hopped off the end of his bed, tapped his cheek, and smiled. "Maggie will be checking on you in a bit. Can you wait for her to help you into bed, or should I help you?"

Tony reached up, took her hand in his, and winked at her. "I'll wait for Maggie. I've been in that bed long enough. Thanks, though. Oh, and for the record, I will remember this moment when you offered to get me in bed."

"Yeah, you do that, DiNozzo," Dorothy laughed.

She gave him a final wave before disappearing into the hall, and when she was out of earshot, Tony grinned, and said, "As soon as I'm sure it won't give me a heart attack, I will be thinking about it. Oh, you bet I will." Unbidden scenes crept into his head of domineering nurses, and Tony shuddered. "Suddenly in a Roger Corman movie. Very disturbing. Probably the red popsicle did it." A new sensation skittered across his chest, and Tony ground his teeth together. Reaching inside his gown, Tony gently scratched, then tapped, then went back to scratching. "God, I hate when the hair starts to grow back." At that moment, he wished he had taken Dorothy up on her offer. A nice dose of narcotics was just what he needed. No itchiness, no pain, and no dreams of Jeanne. At least not tonight.

And he needed one night without her and her caustic eyes.


	17. Chapter 17

This is the penultimate chapter, if you can believe it! Thank you all for sticking with it. I know I've been writing and updating at a snail's pace. I have no excuse but laziness and real life. Oh, and a trivia website where I have wasted a good portion of my life, lo, these past few weeks while Missouri languishes in one snow storm after another.

Thank you to everyone who has left me messages, who has tagged my story, and who has continued to check in on it even when it seemed I had abandoned it. With only one more chapter to go, I hope I bring it around in an acceptable manner. No more plot twists, I assure you. No denouement. Only resolution from here on out.

Enjoy!

**Once, when she was just a girl, **Ziva was given a packet of gelatin pills with tiny sponges inside. She and her friends soaked them in warm water, watching with large, expectant eyes. The casings began to dissolve, and the sponges began to hatch. Then grow, until one was a blue T-Rex and one was a yellow stegosaurus and one was a red dinosaur that none of them could identify. Nonetheless, still amazing.

Watching her partner walk down a hospital corridor wearing baggy grey lounge pants with red splotches and a red Ohio State T-shirt made the same impression on Ziva. Amazing. A little odd, but absolutely amazing.

A week earlier, he had been dying. Fading like newsprint exposed to the harsh elements. Now, here he was, a nurse at his side, but not assisting him, and a simple IV pole in his hand, not the cumbersome telemetry unit. And he was smiling, that big, goofy smile she missed so much. The toothy, wide smile that she hoped to see each time she looked up from her desk, only to find his desk empty, the space void of not only a smiling person but an energy, a source of life. Here it was again, and she could almost hear that insipid giggle of his, and it made her want to laugh as well. So she did.

Turning to her, Tim asked, "Why are you laughing?"

Ziva pressed her fingers to her lips and gave Tim a furtive glance. "Well, I mean," she said waving her hand in Tony's direction, "just look at him."

Tim took in the sight, and smiled. Ziva must have been laughing at his garb, which Abby had brought to him the day before, the lounge pants having been purchased by Abs ("Oh, my god, Tim, I HAVE to buy these. They're hearts." "With bat wings." "I know. Tony'll love them."). As for Tim, his reaction was less about the outfit and all about the fact that Tony was ambulatory. He hated to admit it, but there were more times than he cared to remember when he'd told himself "Tony's not leaving this hospital." But, there he was, Tony walking down the hall, probably flirting with his nurse, or Tim hoped that he might be, and so he smiled.

"Heeeey," Tony crooned, seeing Ziva and Tim waiting for him at his door, waving to him. Tony chucked his nurse on the arm, and said, "Those are my teammates. The tall, desperate-looking one is... Well, it doesn't really matter, but that other one, shorter, no less desperate-looking, is my partner, Ziva... Ziva...something or other. The point is," he said, continuing his slow but steady trek to his door, "she can't keep her hands off me, so you're gonna have to kind of watch her. Can you do that for me, uh...?"

"Maggie, and I'll try," she said, laughing, watching the agents, who, seeing the nurse's amusement, looked to each other, confused.

Tony smiled, an empty, distant expression, while he plowed through his memory for any recollection of her name. "Maggie," he said to himself, hoping this time the name would stick.

However, with only three more yards before his door after having traversed the length of the hall and back, a fifty-yard feat, and without so much as a twinge of pain or any shortness of breath, Tony rationalized that forgetting a few names here and there was nothing in comparison to being able to be up and walking. His smile returned in earnest this time.

Tim was the first to step forward, clapping Tony on the shoulder. "You look good, Ton," he said, stepping in line to walk the remaining distance with his friend. "Did ya go all the way around the ward?"

"Nah," Tony told him, leaning to let Ziva kiss his cheek. "Just to the 25 flag."

Tim turned, looking for a banner of some sort with the number 25 emblazoned. What he found, what he'd always wondered about, were the small, plastic tabs jutting from the ceiling tiles that, he realized, were yard markers, meant for therapists and their patients to be precise about the amount walked. Tim smiled a crooked grin, thinking it was a nice bit of cosmic poetry that Tony was still gaining yardage all these years later.

The four entered his room, Tim and Ziva stepping out of the way to give Tony plenty of room to maneuver. "Nice work, Tony," the nurse said, bringing him around to his seat.

Tony stood a little taller, narrowed his eyes, and said, "Thank you, Maggie," and winked. He wanted to make sure she knew that he had remembered her name this time, which made her giggle again. Which made Tony puff up a little. Which made Ziva roll her eyes.

"Okay, well," Maggie said, checking his IV bag. "You need some help situating yourself, or are you okay?"

"I'm good."

"Then I'll check back in in an hour or so," she said. "Have a nice visit."

"Thank you, Maggie," Tony said, once again emphasizing the woman's name.

When the nurse had vacated the room, the two fell into a more comfortable arrangement, with Ziva on the extra chair and Tim sprawled out over Tony's bed. Tony continued to stand, smiling at his friends. Until he saw Ziva's raised eyebrow. "What?"

"You should be ashamed of yourself," Ziva told him, her arms coiled across her chest.

"Why?"

"I believe the term is cradle rocker."

"Robber," Tim added, picking up a cup next to him, smelling it before he took a sip.

"The point is you are old enough to be her father," Ziva reminded him.

Tim, who had also noticed the young nurse's assets, chimed in with, "She could call me daddy any day."

"This is not helping, McGee," Ziva warned.

"She is young, I'll give you that," Tony said, laying on thick his manufactured dignity. "But, there's no need to worry. I'm a changed man. I've decided to put aside the games of a boy."

"Giving up Rocks, Paper, Flirting, are we?" she teased.

"Changed, Ziva," Tony told her, "not dead."

"Don't forget, Ziva," Tim said, "Tony flirted with his nurse in pre-op. It's part of his DNA."

"You could learn from me, McPro...McPro..." Tony began, but scowled. "Damn. It was a good one, too. Been saving it."

"Saving what?" Tim asked.

"Nothing," Tony said, trying to shake off the disconcerting feeling that his memory was slipping. "Oh, hey! Good news!" Lifting his shirt, Tony exposed his torso to his friends. Tim sat up in bed and Ziva scooted out of the chair to better examine what it was Tony wanted them to see. Aside from the bottom edge of the surgical dressing, which they had become accustomed to, all they saw were three raw gashes, their edges not quite meeting, held together by quick strips of tape. When Tony saw their combined looks of repulsion, he peered down at his own wounds. "Does it look that bad?"

"No," Tim said.

"Of course not," Ziva added. "Except for the fact that it appears as though you've been in a prison fight, no, it looks very good."

Tony craned to look at his upper abdomen, drawing up his shirt hem higher. "A what?"

"Um," Tim continued, sharing a quick glance with Ziva, "what is it, exactly, that we're looking at? You get in a knife fight with a nurse? She shiv ya?"

Tony smirked, and said, " Shiv... No chest tubes! Like you would know from a shiv, McProbiotic. That's it! Ha! McProbiotic."

"If you recall Tony, I was in a prison once, and I do know what a shiv is," Tim said. "And 'McProbiotic'? All these months, and that's the best you can come up with?"

"No. I have others. A whole list. I've had some time on my hands," Tony reminded him.

Ziva grew tired of the puerile conversation, and diverted the talk to Tony's chest. Pointing, she said, "Shouldn't there be sutures or stitches, something to hold the skin together?"

Exasperated, Tony covered himself, and said, "You're missing the point, people. No chest...thingies...tubes, that is. In fact, aside from this one PICC line, I'm kinda like a...uh...you know, one of those..." Snapping his fingers, screwing his face up, Tony labored to excavate the word. "What are those guys called?"

"What guys?" Tim asked.

"Those..." Tony sighed, lowered himself to his seat, and rubbed his eyes. This, trying to find the simple words, was exhausting. "Those guys who...in space...they-astronauts!" he exclaimed, and his face lit up, eyes wide. "Ha! Thought I couldn't get that one, didn't ya?"

Tim and Ziva responded in direct contrast. "How is it you are like an astronaut, Tony?" Ziva asked.

"Those crazy..." he began, mimicking what he believed were astronaut movements, "space-walk-type dealie-bobs they do, with the...the... Help me out here, Probie-wan."

"Been hitting the morphine pump a little hard, there Ton?" Tim said, while a genuine concern began to bubble up inside him.

"No morphine, no...um, other type of drugs, and stuff. No nothing," Tony told them both, proud of this latest milestone in a week filled with incredible accomplishments. "Okay, maybe a little Tylenol, but not much."

"That's...that's great, Tony," Tim said, and Ziva agreed, and the unspoken communication between them screamed of their apprehension over his cognitive haziness.

If this was a new symptom, a new harbinger of things to come, Ziva didn't want to know. She was a strong woman, yes, but she was still reeling from the past few weeks, and she needed some time of peace, so she plower ahead, refusing to entertain anymore negative thoughts or fears. Perhaps a change of direction would be of use, Ziva thought, so she drew her purse into her lap. "Um, Tony," Ziva said, gathering her personal phone and a stack of envelopes from inside, "I have been meaning to give these to you." She handed Tony a neat pile of small cards, their envelopes carefully opened, and a note scrawled on the outside of each. "When you were in ICU, you were not able to receive flowers, so I took pictures-see? Very nice, eh?" she said, scrolling through the pictures of floral arrangements on her phone.

Tony asked, reading the first card, "You give the flowers away like the last time?"

"Yes, or rather the nursing staff did," she said. "Here, this arrangement is from Jimmy Palmer. I believe... Yes, that is the card that goes with the flowers."

"'Dear Tony, I miss you more than words can say. I am relieved, however, not to have to perform your autopsy.'" Tony looked into Ziva's eyes, then Tim's. "That's weird, right? I mean, that's not just me. That's just...beyond dark." Moving along, Ziva showed him another picture. "Oooh, those are nice," he said, trying to erase the memory of Jimmy's attempt at gallows humor. "Which of my adoring fans sent those?"

"Fornell and the boys at the agency," Ziva told him, laughing.

"Okay, disturbing," Tony said, squeamish about the decidedly feminine script and assortment of flowers. "Got any that won't give me nightmares?"

"Show him the ones from the Alpha Chi Delta house," Tim prompted.

"Now that's what I'm talkin' about!" Tony said, clapping his hands together in anticipation.

She was hoping to save this particular missive and image for the end, when she could quickly glance over it, but McGee had ruined her plans, so she scrolled through her pictures and found the offending image, and, refusing to look at the photo, showed it to Tony. "These," Ziva said, drawing from the pile a card that would match the picture, swallowing against her disgust, "are from your...fraternity brothers."

"Come on now! God, I love those...those..." Tony paused, squinting at the highly suggestive picture. He took the phone in his hand, turned it, and said, "Is that what I think it is?"

"We had to...modify the arrangement before delivering them to the children's ward, obviously," Ziva said, grinding her teeth. "The card, by the way, is no less juvenile."

Tony laughed, a lascivious, throaty laugh, and read the card aloud. "'Leave it to DiNozzo to strut around with somebody else's heart on.'" He read it again. The smile left his face, and he said, "Seems kinda callous, even for the guys."

Tim laughed, saying, "Oh, come on! It's not callous. It's funny. Maybe a little callous."

Once again, Tony read the card, saying, "How is it funny?"

"Well, it's...it's a play on words, a pun. A double innuendo?"

"I know what a pun is, McJoykill," Tony said.

Tim swung himself out of bed, wedged himself between the two in order to point out the words on the card, and said, "Heart. On. Heart on. You're strutting around with a heart on. How are you not getting this?"

"I'm not strutting around with..." Tony said. Soon after, comprehension swept over him. "Oh, heart on. Heart on. Got it," he laughed, and then stopped, scanned their faces. "How did I not get that?"

Tim blinked, suddenly finding the humor gone. "I don't know. Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I feel great. Tired, maybe, but great."

Noticing the deep etch of anxiety in his brow, Ziva showed him the next picture. "Ah, this arrangement is from your tailor."

A lovely, tasteful yet conservative arrangement. "You'd think the man coulda dug a little deeper, all the money I've shelled out to him over the years," Tony said, still reeling from his inability to comprehend a simple joke.

"Oh, yes. This plant," Ziva said, tilting her phone for him to see the series of pictures she had taken, "is one we took home to place in your living room." She thought the sight of his own home might bring him some happiness. "It is from none other than-"

"Jackson Gibbs," Tony said, reading the card. "'Kiss the nurses for me.'" Tony smiled, turned the card over, as if maybe there would be more on the other side. Hoping there would be. He chuckled a little, and said, "Nice guy, that Jackson."

"Personally," Tim added, "these are my favorite." He pulled a different card from the pile and drew it from its envelope. Ziva showed him the corresponding picture, a demure, classic arrangement.

Inside the envelope was a simple note of encouragement, a blessing, and a name. And Tony blushed. A sheepish smile graced his lips, and he told them, "Give the woman a doll, and she's yours forever." Ziva smiled at Tim, knowing how kindness begat kindness, and that this is what life is about. Tony carefully placed each note back in its envelope and set them on his side table, all the while overwhelmed by the generosity and care that these flowers and tiny notes had shown him. He washed his hand over his flushed face and he brushed his fingers through his hair, hoping to regain firmer ground. "So..."

"There are assorted cards and letters at your home," Ziva told him, pocketing her phone.

Not wanting to make eye contact just yet, Tony picked at a corner of tape on his arm. "Any from...you know..."

She didn't need to be told who he was talking about, and she knew full well Tony had not misplace this name in his memory. She did not relish telling him the truth, but she had never protected him from it, either. "No," she said, softly.

Tony nodded, cleared his throat, and pinched his nose. "It's all right. I mean, not the end of the world, right? Not the end of the world by a long shot."

"Not at all," Ziva said, sitting on the arm of his chair.

Tim, having taken some time to grasp what and who they were discussing, tried to change the subject. "Oh, hey, Ton, we found out who your donor is."

For a moment, Tony had not heard Tim's statement, convincing himself that to not even receive a card from his father was acceptable, reasonable, even. Maybe Gibbs never was able to contact Senior. That was probably the case, Tony rationalized. Not that it mattered, he also rationalized.

"Tony?" Tim quietly said, touching Tony's shoulder.

Tony looked up from his thoughts, and blinked. "What? You...what?"

"You okay?" Tim asked.

"Yeah, I told you I'm okay. I'm fine. Just...uh, still trying to get my sea-legs, I suppose," he said, conjuring up a less than convincing smile. "What were you saying?"

Tim's brow furrowed, and he wondered if perhaps now was the best time to bring up the subject. "Look, we can talk about this another time. You should-"

"I'm fine, McGuillotine," Tony said, waving Tim on.

"That another one you've been working on?" Tim asked.

Tony reached for the drawer of his table, and said, "I told ya, made a list. Wanna hear them?"

"Maybe some other time," Tim said, looking to Ziva for their next move.

"Yes, well," Ziva said, keeping her eyes riveted to Tim, hoping that her decision was the right one, "as McGee was saying, we have word about your donor."

"Really?" Tony said. "I thought that was supposed to be an anonymous process."

"Oh, it is, for most people," Tim said, sitting against the edge of Tony's bed. "But we're not normal people."

"Well," Tony added, "you're not."

"We are federal agent," Ziva reminded him.

"Yes, we are," Tony said.

"So, yeah, we found out the donor is a woman," Tim told him. And then watched his expression.

"Okay."

"A vegetarian, even," Ziva added.

Tony thought about it, and said, "Okay, that's good. That's...that's...Means she took good care of her health."

"Yes, she took care of lots of things," Tim continued. "People, mostly."

"People?"

"She was a sister," Ziva said, matter of factly.

"Whose sister?"

"Like a nun, Ton."

Tony blinked and considered the ramifications of having a religious organ in him. "A nun, eh? Sure, that explains why she took care of people."

"And cats," Tim offered.

"Cats?"

Ziva nodded, saying, "Yes. At least twelve."

"That lived inside."

His brow pinched in concern, Tony said, "I hate cats."

Ziva tapped a finger against her cheek, and mused, "She was also fond of practical shoes."

Tony sat forward in his chair, his jaw agape, his eyes mere slits. "What? How do you... Who finds out these things?"

"I like muzzy Tony," Tim told Ziva, and Ziva agreed.

Tony considered the list, and said, "Why would anyone know...this. You can't...know this." And then he looked at their faces, barely able to contain their laughter. "You don't know this. Havin' a little fun at my expense, are ya?"

"Yes, we are," Ziva said, cupping his face with her hands. "It is so easy."

He glared at her, voice low, growling. "Have you no...no..."

"Shame?" Tim supplied, falling back into the bed.

"I was going for souls," Tony said, and Ziva patted his cheek, "but shame works, too." When she got up from her position on his chair and went back to sitting on the day bed, still laughing, he continued his glare. "Not even a week post-op, and this is how you treat me?"

Through his laughter, Tim said, "Oh, come on! It was funny, and you totally fell for it. And, as a matter of fact," he said, digging his elbow into the mattress, "it's because you're feeling so well that we decided it was time to start treating you like we always have, with deep and utter disrespect."

"If you think about it, Tony," Ziva continued, "abusing you, as we just have, is our way of saying we're glad you are back to being you."

Tony mulled that one over, and it made him feel pretty damn good, but the fact remained, heavy in Tony's being, that there had been a donor, an anonymous person who had lost his or her life, and as much as he enjoyed their camaraderie and humor, he also knew he wasn't quite ready to joke about that. Not that he blamed them. How could he? They were responding to the happiness of having their friend with them, responding to the fact that he was well, and when well, able to be more himself, which was a fun-loving, perverse, sophomoric guy.

But, he was also a man with someone else's heart beating in his chest, and with every breath he took, unassisted and with ease, Tony bore the weight of such an enormous gift.

It wasn't time for him to make light of such a gift. It was time to be thankful. And the half dozen or so unfinished thank you notes inside his side table drawer spoke to just how enormous was the task of thankfulness.

**What a night.**

Gibbs, Ziva and Tim slogged into the bullpen, just as the sun crested the morning sky. Each tossed their gear into the corners of their work areas and began the task of cataloging the new crime scene, one that had taken them out to an abandoned house in Anacostia. Three hours policing brass, dusting for fingerprints, talking to anyone willing to show their faces in the middle of the night, and the team was exhausted. Still, there was work to do, so they powered up their computers.

Half an hour later, Tim was struggling to stay awake. "Hey, Boss?"

"Make mine black, McGee," Gibbs said, never looking up from his vigorous typing. Tim nodded, patted down his pocket to make sure he had his wallet, and rose from his chair.

"Good morning, fellow government workers," came the greeting from the elevator. Ziva spun her attention toward the voice, having to stand to see over her cubicle walls. "Good morning, Miss David," Tobias said, handing her a lidded cup of strong, black tea. "The bag has been seeping all the way here."

"Thank you, Agent Fornell," she said, adding a demure dip of the chin.

Making his way around the room, he next stopped at Gibbs' desk. "I asked for the end of last night's pot. It's sludge."

A lopsided smile played on his lips, and Gibbs said, "Much obliged, Tobias."

"And for you, McGee," he said, uncorking the second-to-last cup from the carrier, "there was a moment when I couldn't decide between hot chocolate, chai latte and mocha-mint-cappuccino, so I went with a double espresso, neat."

Another crooked smile, and Tim said, "Thanks, Fornell. I could really use it today."

"Tough night?" the FBI agent asked, tossing the drink carrier in the garbage.

"It was a night," Gibbs told him, gulping the scalding liquid as if his mouth were made of teflon. "Oh... That's good."

"Speaking of good," Tobias said, "I have word from a guy who knows a man who... Well, you know the drill. Anyhow, it's from the Chinese Embassy."

Tim choked a little on his drink, and said, "The Chen case?"

"That would be the one, unless you have other dealings with the Chinese Embassy that I should know about."

"Um, no," Tim said.

"What's the word?" Gibbs asked, sitting back in his chair.

Tobias leaned against the edge of Tony's desk, and Ziva bristled but said nothing. "Seems our Mr. Liu has decided his son needs more education."

"Education, eh?"

"One might say of the boarding school variety, with slightly less grandiose buildings."

"Did he send him off to tour the Laogai of the People's Republic?" Gibbs asked, smirking at the justice of it all.

"Actually," Tobias said, stepping toward Gibbs' desk, pulling a surveillance photo from his pocket, "more like those of his neighboring cousin." He tossed the image onto the surface, and said, "Yodok Offenders and Family Camp, where there are only two medicines for the complete eradication of the influence of spoiled capitalist ideology-"

"Labor and control," Gibbs supplied, taking in the grainy yet conspicuous photo of a frightened young man, huddling against either the cold or an external threat. More likely both. Gibbs smiled and nodded. "Something tells me the Lius won't be ringing in the New Year together."

"I'd say that's a pretty good bet," Tobias said, returning to his spot against Tony's desk. "Of course, you realize this means the case is officially closed, and the Chens may never get the answers they're looking for."

"I believe Mr. and Mrs. Chen will understand. Mr. Chen escaped Sujiatun in 1961," Ziva said, her personal understanding of having been pirated away, left for dead weighing heavily on her. "If the information were offered to them in a...discrete manner, they would understand. And they would find peace."

"Officially, Miss David," Tobias reminded her, "the American government has no information on the whereabouts of our suspect and believes him to be on the run."

"Yes, I understand," Ziva said.

Gibbs watched her, watched her straight back, her lowered head, the way her hands pressed neatly on her desk. She's burying it, he told himself. How many times a day must she put it all away?

"So, here's a question," Tim said, his index finger jutting in the air. "What about the fifteen-thousand dollars in cashier checks Justin sent his parents?"

Gibbs opened his desk drawer and produced an envelope. "As far as I'm concerned, they are the personal property of Mr. And Mrs. Chen."

"Funny how some things never make it into the evidence file," Tobias said, glancing at Tim sidelong.

Ziva rose from her seat and stood in front of Gibbs. "I would be happy to make sure his parents received these."

Gibbs handed her the file and sipped from his coffee.

"Well, I guess my job is done," Tobias said, tossing his empty cup into the same trash receptacle. "Oh, by the way, Jethro, I've got a two-fer at Flaming Wieners. You interested?"

"It'd be late," Gibbs told him. Ziva and Tim threw silent questions toward each other.

"I'm sure they'll still be hot," Fornell said, buttoning his overcoat. "Give me a call when you're ready."

"Will do," Gibbs told him, and casually accessed his email account.

Tim, left reeling by the seemingly sordid details that had flown by him, tried very hard not to imagine his boss and Agent Fornell at some less than reputable establishment. When he weighed the difference between his imagination and his desire to know the truth, Tim decided he'd risk the embarrassment. "Um, Boss..."

"It's a hot dog joint, McGee," Gibbs said, opening up an email from the resident forensic pathologist. "Get your mind out of the gutter."

"Got it, Boss," is all Tim said, and his mind was clear once again.

"'_Jethro, I'm spending the morning with our very special agent. Will endeavor to return to the base by lunch. Until then, Mr. Palmer will be flying solo. Ducky._'"

Gibbs scowled, took another gulp of coffee, and said, "Assume the crash position."

**Tony wasn't sure which was more disconcerting**: the raised, pink scar that ran the length of his sternum, or the cheap haircut he had received from the hospital's barber. He smoothed his hands across the side of his head, over the cowlick that swirled at his crown, pressed the chopped, short bangs up, and checked the length of his sideburns.

"It'll grow back," he comforted himself.

"You are not a starfish, Anthony," Ducky said, coming around the corner of the small bathroom. "You cannot regenerate body parts."

Tony acknowledged the presence of his friend in the reflection of his mirror, and went back to pawing at his hair. "I was talking about my do, Duck."

"Ah, well," Ducky said, removing his hat and coat, "it's good to see a well-coiffed Tony once again."

"I don't know about well coiffed," Tony said, checking the sideburns a third time. "More like...like Mr. Sterling, my sixth-grade gym teacher. Mean guy. Surly, even. Used to smack us on the tops of our heads with his hand, the one where he wore a great, big, honkin'...um... Those things you wear on your...fingers."

"Rings."

"Yeah, those," Tony said, turning away from the mirror, grabbing hold of his IV pole. "The man knew his basketball. I'll give him that. Taught me how to see the entire floor."

"Ah, yes. Another piece to the puzzle," Ducky said to himself, making way for Tony to exit the bathroom.

"How's that?"

"Not important," Ducky said, tossing his belongings on the day bed. "I do say, you seem to be doing remarkably."

"Yeah, so they tell me," Tony said, gently lowering himself into his seat.

"Sleeping well?"

"As well as to be expected while in a hospital with nurses taking your vitals every four hours," Tony told him.

Ducky took the extra chair, crossed his legs, and straightened the crease on his trousers. "And your cardiac rehab?"

"Which part?" Tony shifted his position to ease the pinch of nerves in his chest.

"Let's start with the physical," Ducky told him. "I see that you are quite capable of getting in and out of bed."

"Given enough time, yeah," Tony said.

"That's wonderful, my boy. Now, how about walking? How often do you walk a day? Stairs? Do you have clearance to leave the ward?"

"Okay, slow down, Duck," Tony admonished him, having a hard time keeping up with the questions. "Which...what?"

"Walking," Ducky simply stated, watching Tony carefully, aware that his young friend was not at the peak of his intellectual capabilities. "How much walking are you doing in a day, would you guess?"

Tony rested his head against the back of the chair and breathed deeply. "Oh, I don't know. Probably, uh..." He closed his eyes, trying to do the math. "Probably one hundred yards, four times a day. What was the next...um...next...Stairs, right?"

"Yes, stairs."

Tony shook his head, "Nah. Not yet. Morgan, that's my OT, said soon, though."

"Good."

A twinge of pain, like a quick electrical shock, zinged through Tony's sternum, and he pressed his hand to the spot, wincing in pain. "Nerves...coming together."

"Yes, I imagine that is uncomfortable," Ducky said, peering at the man over his glasses. "Eh, Anthony, aside from the physical recovery, how are you?"

"Well," Tony said, blinking, dropping his hands to the arms of the chair, "I'm a little concerned about Charlie Sheens's rehab, but other than that... Why? What have you heard?"

"I spoke to Dorothy before coming in," Ducky said, broaching the subject when he knew the plain truth would not be forthcoming from Tony. "She told me you've been having difficulty with your memory."

"It's like I've got a head full of drawers, Ducky, filled with words," Tony said, his eyes focusing on nothing in particular. "Problem is, I can't figure out which one to open half the time. I know they're there, somewhere, in one of those drawers, but..."

"Has your therapist discussed post-perfusion syndrome with you?" the older man asked.

Tony searched his memory. So many things, events, moments were blotted out, as if his mind were a top secret file and random parts had been redacted. Perhaps this conversation with Morgan had been expunged as well. Tony sighed, and said, "I'm not sure. Maybe. What is it?"

"Post-perfusion syndrome is an only recently accredited phenomenon wherein patients who have been placed on a heart-lung machine experience cognitive impairment from one degree to another, or or or difficulty concentrating. No one knows the reason for this. Perhaps it is the bruising of the red-blood cells as they are forced through the cardiopulmonary bypass, or it may be caused by the breaking off of plaque in the arteries, which is sent up into the brain, via the..." Ducky paused and assessed his young friend's expression, full of dread and questions. "Oh, but you needn't worry, Anthony. A man of your age should completely recover his faculties over time."

"Should, Ducky?" Tony said, beginning to comprehend the greater implications of such a disorder.

Ducky wished he had not been quite so forthcoming with the man, and so began to backpedal. "You'll be fine, Tony. Give it some time."

"So, let me get this straight," Tony said, wiping his hand across his lips, "I gain a heart, but I lose my mind." A bitter, sardonic chuckle left his lips, and Tony said, "'Cause I tell ya, Duck, that's just what it feels like."

"Yes, I'm sure it does," Ducky said.

"I have these pictures," Tony said, lifting a stack of photos from his side table, "of all my, um..." He showed the pictures to Ducky, photos of pills and their vials. Tony flipped the pictures to show both the image and the words written on the back. "I'm supposed to be learning their names, the dosages, what they do, when I take them, that sort of thing. It ain't easy, Ducky, not with this... What did you call it?"

"In medical jargon, it's called post-perfusion syndrome," Ducky told him, keeping his voice soft and even. "Your surgeon, however, and quite possibly your therapist would also refer to it as pump head."

"Pump head. Sweet," Tony said, lost in the great swirl of information overload. "Well, I can't get out of the hospital until this pump head of mine learns my drug protocol."

"I am reminded of a story," Ducky said, wondering if a little diversion might ease the strain in Tony's features. "Early in my career, I had the opportunity to work in the Punjab region of India. Well, at that time the region straddled the Indian and Pakistani border, but I feel confident in saying my affiliation was well inside the Indian border." He paused to track Tony's well-being, and found him to be deep in thought. Ducky persevered, nonetheless. "It was during this time, the mid-1960s, that I met a rather curious woman, one Marcail Singh, who was the product of a Punjabi father and, as you might expect with such a first name, a Scottish mother."

"You'd be surprised how I might not expect that," Tony said, and with his snippy remark, Ducky knew he had extricated his young friend a tad from his burdensome thoughts.

Well," the Scotsman continued in a robust voice, "I don't have to tell you how extraordinary this was, especially in my mind, what with meeting a fellow Highlander in Hindustan. Marcail had her father's hair and skin, and her mother's green eyes. Marvelous. Simply breathtaking beauty. I often think of her when-"

"Is there a point, Ducky?" Tony asked.

Ducky stopped, followed the trail of his own thought process back to where it began, and said, "Yes, of course. Marcail was, obviously, bilingual, and because I have always been fascinated with the tongues of others," he said with a wink, "I asked her to teach me a bit of Punjabi. And so she did. For weeks we tried, and little of the language even seeped into my mind. Part of the problem, I believe, was that I was immersed in learning copious amounts of information every day about this strange, new place. Growing more and more frustrated, I was on the verge of giving up all together, when a most remarkable thing happened. I realized I was a tactile learner, and Marcail had been laboring to teach me with only auditory lessons."

"Auditory? As in oral, Duck?" Tony asked, becoming more interested in the conversation.

"Oh, yes," Ducky growled, lifting a brow.

"So, did you finally learn Punjabi?"

"Gracious, no," Ducky said, playfully scowling. "Terribly difficult language. It wasn't all for naught, though. I returned home to Scotland a month later with some lovely memories of my time there and one phrase in Punjabi that I remember to this day- 'Oh aa jayeega.' And the only reason I remember that is because lovely Marcail taught it to me while we were locked in a kiss."

"Little mouth to mouth, Ducky?" Tony asked, smiling.

"Among other things," Ducky added. "My point is, Anthony, you are immersed in your own strange, new world. You mustn't forget that. All will be well."

Tony continued to smile, resting his head on the back of the chair, comforted by his friend's words. "So, that phrase-What does it mean?"

"It's a fairly simple sentence. One you might learn to be able to traverse a foreign land. It means 'He is coming,'" Ducky said, averting his eyes from Tony's, yet unable to mask the pleasure he found in such a randy tale.

"Get outta town," Tony said, laughing. "Lovely Marcail Singh?"

"Oh, I assure you, she most certainly did. Purred once or twice, as well," Ducky told him, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Tony laughed out loud, a hardy laugh, one that he realized he hadn't produced in months. He reached over and patted Ducky's knee, and laughed some more. "It is good to hear you laugh, Tony."

"Yeah," Tony said, taking a deep breath, "I was thinking the same thing." He rolled his head along the back of the chair and, smiling, said, "It's been a hell of an adventure, huh, Duck."

"One might say an odyssey, even," Ducky said.

"Ah, yes, Odysseus. Epic hero, known for his charm. Native of the..." Tony said, snapping his fingers. "The sea that surrounds Greece. And Italy, I might add."

"Mediterranean," Ducky supplied.

"Right," Tony said. "Yeah, I can see the resemblance."

"Also known for his hubris," Ducky reminded him.

Tony considered his own hubris, and said, "Yeah, I think I got that knocked out of me pretty good." And as Tony looked around the room, one of many such rooms that had been his home these last month, he thought back on all those times his pride had taken a blow, at the times when he had required a nurse to help him to the bathroom, or a friend to hold his hand while he wept. Surely his pride had been removed with his diseased heart. Just another thing he supposed he should be thankful for. Tony lifted his hand to his chest and felt the cadence of his new heart.

"Ducky," he said, closing his eyes, "how do I thank them?"

"Who?"

"The donor. The family. How do I thank them for... How do I thank them for this..." His words ground to a halt, caught in the burden of the paradox of transplantation-unfathomable appreciation alongside sorrowful empathy. He shook his head, swallowed the tight knot in his throat, and tried to smile. "This," he said, motioning to the obvious signs of emotion on his face, "this is from the prednisone. Dorothy said I might be having mood swings. Well, I suppose..."

Ducky shook his head, unconvinced by his friend's explanation. "It is an awesome responsibility you alone must bear to give words to the thanks you feel in your heart."

"That's just it, Duck," Tony said, embarrassed by his lack of stoicism, and so he pinched his nose and sniffed, scrubbed his hands over his thighs, and tried to explain. "This heart isn't mine. It belonged to someone else. Someone who had to die so that I could live."

"That's where you are wrong, lad," Ducky told him, leaning forward to cup Tony's knee with his palm. "No one..._had _to die for you. This gift you've received was given to you years before your donor died and you became ill. It was given to you the moment he or she signed the organ-donor card. Be thankful for the heart, yes, but more so for the foresight your donor had or the family had about the magnanimity of organ donation."

Tony rushed his hand over his lips, tight and quivering, and he nodded. Ducky's words were like salve on this tender wound, one that went far deeper than the long incision on his chest. He nodded again, and even tried to make eye contact with his friend. It would take time, he decided, before he could rationally, calmly, simply consider the gift he'd been given.

And then again, Tony thought there wasn't one thing that was rational or simple about being alive after all he had been through.

"**Come on, Dorothy,"** Tony implored, standing in front of the nurses' station, while Dorothy organized a tower of charts, "you said when I was a short-timer, you'd tell me the story."

Dorothy smiled, felt the blush of memory warm her face. "Fine." She put aside her work, stepped around the station and took Tony's arm. "Two birds, eh? We walk and talk."

"I can do that," Tony said, swinging his IV pole around.

"Jethro was married at the time, and so was I," she began, escorting her patient down the corridor. "We lived in the same neighborhood, and we'd occasionally get together to have a drink. I think what drew us all together was the fact that none of us had kids. Seems like an unlikely pairing, even now. I didn't realize it at the time, but Jethro and his wife were about on the rocks, and so was my marriage. It only marginally bothered me that my husband and his wife seemed to hit it off so well."

"Little too neighborly?" Tony said, imagining the scenario.

"I'm pretty sure nothing was officially going on while we were married, but..." Dorothy shook her head and blustered on. "Well, anyhow, once my divorce was in the works, I called Leroy one night. Just to talk. And so we'd meet now and again, drink a little, talk a little. Very little where Jethro was concerned," she told him, sharing a knowing eye with Tony. "Our exes ended up getting together, which cemented my friendship with Jethro. Woke up a lot of mornings worse for wear in those days. But, I hate to tell ya, Anthony, that my relationship with Gibbs was never more than a friendship and many, many...many bottles of Scotch."

"But you're a redhead," Tony said.

"Now, yeah," Dorothy giggled. "Back then, I was a blond. Besides, I didn't need another man in my life. I needed a friend."

"I know the feeling."

"And then there was Stephanie..."

"Stephanie? Gibbs' ex?"

"Once she had her claws in him, watch out! She didn't like me," Dorothy said, shaking her head. "One day I noticed that they were packing their things in the car, and I asked if they were going on vacation. Jethro, Mr. Tightlipped, kind of hemmed and hawed, but Stephanie, oi! 'We're going to the other side of the world to have some privacy.' Lovely woman," Dorothy laughed. "Imagine being jealous of me."

Tony smiled, and then the succession of Gibbs' marriages synched up with the story Dorothy had unfolded. "Wait a minute," he said, grasping her elbow. "Did your ex-husband marry Gibbs' ex-wife?"

"Yeah, ain't that a kick in the ass," Dorothy said, stepping forward. However, Tony stopped her.

"So, wait...ha," Tony laughed. "It may be the pump head and all that jazz, but unless I'm mistaken, what you're trying not to tell me is that you were married to...to... What was his name? Help me out here, Dot."

"She's not under investigation, Agent DiNozzo," he said, and when they turned, sure enough, Gibbs was behind them.

"Oh, hey, Boss," Tony said, taking his conversation with Dorothy, folding it up for a later date, and sticking it in his metaphorical pocket. "By the way, does the name Pai Mei mean anything to you, Boss?"

"No, but pie ala mode does," Gibbs said. "He eat lunch yet?"

"Not yet," Dorothy told Gibbs, handing over her responsibility. "About half hour or so."

"You've been very helpful, miss," Tony told Dorothy, looking her deeply in the eye. "Don't leave town. I may have further questions."

"Not if you want to keep all your teeth," Gibbs told his senior agent, leaning to kiss Dorothy on the cheek. "Can I take him on a stroll?"

"He's cleared to walk as much as he wants," she told him, patting Tony on the back. "If you can have him back for lunch, he needs to take his meds."

"Will do," Gibbs told her, and took Tony by the elbow.

DiNozzo called over his shoulder, "Fornell! Was it Fornell, Dorothy?" A giggle floated through the halls, coming from the retreating nurse.

"Let it go, DiNozzo," Gibbs told him. He looked over his field agent, standing tall, steady, and clean shaven. It made him proud. "That's a good looking haircut, DiNozzo."

Switching his IV pole from one hand to the other, Tony pawed at his hair, and said, "I think ol' Giuseppe was blind in one eye. Possibly both. Don't know when I've ever had a twenty dollar haircut."

"Me, either," Gibbs told him, aghast at the expense.

Tony looked over his boss' severe razor cut, hardly changed over the years he had known the man. Kind of comforting in a way. "So, don't know if you heard, but I'm, uh, getting kicked out of here."

"Yeah, I think Ducky mentioned that," Gibbs said, walking alongside his friend.

"Been a long time since I've been out of this place," he said.

"Time to move forward," Gibbs told him, continuing their walk to the end of the hall, where a room awash in sunlight awaited them. A nice open space, big enough to have a private conversation or to make plans for a life beyond the confines and protection of a hospital. Gibbs thought it was just about time to have those types of conversations, and he thought Tony would agree with him. So they walked, talking about nonessentials, Tony telling Gibbs about his nursing staff, his doctors, his cardiac team. Gibbs would listen, smile and nod his head, just let his friend ramble on, knowing full well the nervous tension building in Tony's voice.

The room was empty, and the late morning sun streamed in, whitewashing the space. Coming to stand near the large expanse of windows, Tony looked out over the world, far below. "You think they're ready for me to join them again, all those people out there?"

"Are you?" Gibbs asked, his back to the world, attention squarely on Tony.

"Kinda got a strange...um, thing going here, Boss," Tony said, not ready to look Gibbs in the eye. Not yet. "Ducky calls it pump head. I'm losing words here and there, so...ya know, if I get confused..."

"Ducky told me," Gibbs said, winding his arms across his chest.

Tony nodded, pretty sure that Ducky had brought Gibbs up to speed on all the latest. "So, anyhow, I've got this...um, thing. Paradox. That's it. Paradox."

"Okay. What is paradoxical in your life, DiNozzo?"

Tony stared into the blinding whiteness, chuckled out loud, and said, "I've been thinking a lot about Cate these days."

"She was a paradox, I'll give you that."

"Yeah, she was," Tony said, musing on the tough as nails investigator who lived inside the body of such a proper lady. He missed her, more so in the last months. "I've got a second chance here, and believe me, I'm grateful. But..." And these were hard words, words that felt like a betrayal to all that he had been given. Still, he needed to say them, and by articulating them, remove them from his being. "I kind of thought I'd live forever, ya know?" Gibbs simply nodded and kept his blue eyes on his friend. "If I'm very lucky... If I do all the right things, take care of my health, do everything I'm supposed to do, then I'm going to live about five to fifteen more years."

"Average lifespan for a transplant patient," Gibbs quietly said, tilting his head to the side, peering into Tony's clear, pensive eyes. "Average has never been a word I would attach to you."

"I appreciate that, Boss, but my point is..." Tony cleared his throat and let go of the worst of it. "It's starting to occur to me that... Well, I'm not gonna see old age. And then I think of Cate. And of Paula. And Jenny. What they wouldn't give for a couple more days..." Tony turned from the window and moved to the secluded corner of the room where he and Gibbs could sit. Where Tony could gather his thoughts more succinctly. "So that's my paradox- I'm grateful for this...borrowed time, but, god, I want more."

"My dad once told me," Jethro said, lowering himself to the chair next to Tony, yanking his sport coat out from under him, "that it's not the number of days in a man's life; it's what he does with those days."

"My dad once told me I was going to a coed high school. Turns out the nuns who taught us were the coeds," Tony remembered, not too fondly. "But, I can see where your fatherly advice is probably more pertinent to this conversation, so let's stick with it."

"Good idea," Jethro said.

"So, 365 in a year, multiply that by ten..." Tony said, clasping his hands together. "That's three-thousand, sixty five days."

"No," Gibbs said, "That's three-thousand, six-hundred and fifty days, DiNozzo."

Tony smiled, laughed a little, and said, "Pump head."

"It's a handy little excuse you got there," Gibbs said. "My father told me something else..."

"Excuses only fit the people who make them," Tony supplied, staring into the center of the room. "Yeah, you've laid that one on me before."

"So, what's your plan?"

Tony quirked an eyebrow, gave his friend a sidelong glance, and blinked. "I'm going to try to appreciate every day that I have, and not worry about my sooner-than-expected expiration date."

"That's all any of us can do," Gibbs reminded him.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. After all," he said, "I could be out in the field, working a case, and I could get shot, just like that. There are no guarantees." Gibbs wondered if Tony's words were fishing for some other information, and so he didn't offer any further comment. Finally, after his hands stopped pulling at his fingers, and his toes stopped tapping against the floor, when a sort of burdensome reality infused him, Tony spoke again. "I'm not ever going to be a field agent again, am I, Boss."

There was no sense in offering the man pipe dreams. DiNozzo wouldn't want it; Gibbs wouldn't do it. He might mask his true intelligence with an immature display, turn away from his wire-sharp intuition in order to play "what if?", but DiNozzo would always come round to the truth, and Gibbs was always proud of his agent for it. And so he challenged his friend with a question. "What do you think?"

Tony sat up straight in his chair, hands folded softly in his lap. "I think an agent with a denervated heart can't tell a bad guy who's fleeing the area 'Yeah, you just go on ahead. I need a couple minutes to warm up first before I start my pursuit. Yeah, don't worry. I'll catch up with ya later.' Of course there's always the problem with my drug protocol, not really what you'd call conducive to the job, particularly any surveillance assignments."

"Good point," Jethro said.

"Then there's that whole issue of the government having spent the good tax payers' money on my medical expenses. Not sure they'll want me out there, risking it all, just to take a bullet to the head," Tony said, finding with each scenario his spirit lagging, his shoulders drooping. "Speaking of heads, it's gonna be pretty damn difficult to lead an investigation when I can't even remember the...goddamn suspect's name. Tell me I'm wrong, Gibbs," he said, rushing a hand through his hair, "but I don't think I'm coming back to the field."

Gibbs reached over and cuffed him on the forearm, offering tacit agreement and support to the man.

"I'm a cop, Gibbs. What am I gonna do if I can't be a cop?" Tony asked, searching his friend's eyes for an answer.

"Anthony," Gibbs began, his voice quiet and sure, "you are one of the finest investigators I have ever known. Your days in the field are over, but," he said, cupping the back of Tony's neck in his large, strong hand, "as long as I got a job, you got a job. You hear me?"

Tony's eye did not waver from the resolve in Gibbs' eyes. He needed to anchor himself to that strength, and so he swallowed hard against the fear rising in his voice, and whispered, "Yes, Boss."

"Good," Gibbs said, squeezing Tony's shoulder for good measure. "Pritnear time for lunch. Wouldn't want to keep ol' Dorothy waiting." Gibbs stood up, and purposefully stepped away from his friend, toward the window. A silent order to take a few minutes, get yourself together. Time to move on.

"Hey, Boss?" Tony said.

"Yeah, DiNozzo."

He didn't really want to know the answer, but he had to ask. There was always going to be that scratching, that bothersome question, like a sliver of corn husk stuck between your teeth. And so he forced himself to ask. "Did you ever...ever talk to my dad?"

There were times for cutting honesty and times for compassionate syntax. On the heels of this surprise question, Gibbs wasn't sure how best to answer. He supposed splitting the difference might be for the best. "I tell ya what, DiNozzo," he said, rubbing his fingers against the sudden ache in his forehead, "I was never able to get through to him." A sin of omission, he thought. One he could live with. But when he looked up, when he saw that Tony understood without having been told, Gibbs had a moment of regret.

Tony shook his head, grabbed hold of his IV pole and hoisted himself out of his chair. "I appreciate it, Boss, nonetheless."

"Your father, Tony," Gibbs began, but Tony stopped him.

"My father," he said, stopping Gibbs with a upraised hand, "makes his own choices. And so do I. And now, I choose to go eat lunch."

There it was again, Gibbs thought, that indomitable, noble spirit. Gibbs stepped in alongside his friend, and together they made their way down the linoleum-lined hallway, silently at first, consumed by their conversation. Patients with whom Tony had become familiar waved to him or stopped to share how each of their recoveries were going. Nurses passed by and offered words of encouragement, to which Tony offered his room number. His therapist, assisting a different patient, reminded Tony to keep studying his drug flashcards. Once they reached his room, Gibbs could sense how tired Tony had become. He helped situate him in his chair, brought his side table around to him, and gathered up all the flashcards strewn over the surface. He asked Tony if he wanted his lunch, which was waiting on the bedside table, and Tony said no.

"You gotta eat, DiNozzo," Gibbs reminded him.

"Oh, believe me, I know," Tony said.

"Okay, then..." Gibbs pulled out his phone and quickly checked his messages-nine in the short time he had spent with Tony. He rolled his eyes and shoved the phone back in his pocket.

"Hey, Boss, before you go," Tony said, looking up at him from his seat. "How's the Chen case going?"

Gibbs chuckled, shifted his weight from foot to foot, and said, "You know, DiNozzo, with all you got on your plate right now, why does it matter?"

"You're right," Tony said, staring at his mentor and friend, "it doesn't matter. Not a tinker's damn. But I'm sitting here with a zipper over my sternum, somebody else's heart in my chest, and a satchel full of immunosuppressants, but when I talk about this case-about any case-I can pretend that it does matter, that it's important. That my whole life doesn't have to be about fluid retention and...and...ha...and organ rejection, and..." When he ran out of steam, Tony wiped a quick hand across his mouth and told himself to calm down. Just calm down. "It's important for me to get out of my own head, ya know?"

Gibbs considered what Tony had said, and nodded. "Tell you what," he said, pulling up a chair, placing Tony's lunch tray on the table in front of him. "You eat, and I'll bring you up to speed."

"Okay," Tony said, knowing Gibbs was appeasing him, like a parent does to an overly tired child, but he'd meet the man halfway. Gladly so.

Leveraging open a container of skim milk, Gibbs said, "Our friend, young Mr. Liu, is being taken care of in a way only the People's Republic can."

For the next hour, Gibbs and Tony talked shop, and when Tony's lunch was finished and when his medication had been taken, Gibbs gathered his things to leave. As a gesture to their friendship, but also in respect, Tony rose from his chair and offered to escort Gibbs to the door, a mere ten feet or so, but still a gesture.

"One last thing," Gibbs said, shaking Tony's hand.

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Check in with Ziva."

This took Tony aback, and so he said, "What's going on with Ziva? She was just here. She seemed fine."

Gibbs clucked his tongue against his cheek, and said, "You know how you prepare yourself for a big game, and then when it's over you realize just how tough a game it really was?"

"Yeah."

"I don't think Ziva is willing to admit she got pretty beat up over the past couple months," Gibbs told him.

Tony read the unspoken, slightly cloaked words, nodded, and said, "Thanks, Jethro. I'll take care of it."

"I know you will," Gibbs said. From the top of the deck, Gibbs picked up a flashcard and showed it to Tony. On it was a picture of an off-white, double-dosed pill, scored on one side, with the word "IMURAN" on the other.

Tony took a deep breath, squinted at the picture, and said, "That would be azathioprine, commonly known as Imuran. The dose is 50 milligrams, once daily. It's used to prevent rejection. Side effects include nausea, vomiting, diarrhea like you're a 747 getting rid of its waste tanks over Nebraska."

Gibbs quirked a smile, replaced the card on the deck, and tapped Tony under the chin. "Leave Dorothy alone."

"I can only do so much, Gibbs," Tony called out to his exiting friend. "But you said it yourself, my investigative powers are formidable!"

When no one responded, Tony sat back down in his chair and rested his head against the back. A meat and potatoes kind of conversation, he thought. Heavy, satisfying, concrete. It had given him a lot to think about. But the more he thought, the more tired he became.

A moment later, Tony fell asleep while visions of a tangible future danced in his head.


	18. Chapter 18

Friends! Thank you for hanging in! This was to be the last chapter, but at almost 7000 words and only half finished, I decided these two scenes would suffice. Therefore, the last two scenes will be forthcoming, and then we'll be finished with this crazy ride!

**NCISNCISNCISNCISNCISNCISNCIS**

**Exasperated, Tim kicked the door.** "Abby! Open up!" he yelled, the bags slipping that were clutched in his arms. It was bad enough that they had sent him to the market for a second time, alone, with a list just as long as the first, full of grains, vegetables, fruits and herbs that he had never heard of, now they weren't even assisting him at the door. "Come on, you guys!"

With a whoosh, Tony's apartment door flew open. "There's no need to yell, McGee," Abby scolded, taking one of the bags. "Did you get the tahini and sumac this time?"

"I had to go to three different stores before I found it," Tim told her, tripping into the apartment, struggling with the bags.

"Well, your efforts are appreciated, Timothy," Ducky said, patting McGee on the shoulder. "A heart-healthy diet is paramount to Anthony's continued success. Of course, tahini, with its restorative properties-"

"Ya know, Ducky, rather than school me, how about helping me?" Tim said, stumbling. In quick fashion, Ducky assisted McGee in his burdensome load, and soon the assortment of bags were placed on the kitchen counter.

"Okay, I've scrubbed down every surface in his bathroom with antibacterials, and now my hands are numb," Jimmy Palmer stated, staring in horror at the effect the scouring powder had on his skin. "I think I may have permanently lost tactile sensation in three fingers. Also, I may have lost my fingerprints." Ziva chuckled and continued chopping tomatoes.

Abby finished folding the last load of clothes, saying, "Smell that?" When none of the noses picked up anything other than Ziva's cooking, Abby smiled and said, "That's right! You don't! No more dyes, perfumes or other allergens. All of Tony's towels, bedding and clothes are green. Well, not green. It's not like I dyed them. They're green, as in-"

"We got it, Abs," Tim said, pulling a box onto the coffee table, one that he had brought in days earlier. "So, I was doing a little online shopping, and take a gander at this assortment." Removing the life-vest-type packing from the container, Tim brought out a pyramid of boxes, all hermetically sealed, and all of which created great pleasure in his eyes. "These, my friends, are the latest and greatest gadgets available for heart-transplant recipients. One infrared, non-contact thermometer, highly rated on . Better than the ones used at Bethesda, I might add." He placed the box to the side and picked up another. "A blood-pressure monitor, top of the line, which conforms to WHO standards. I called my buddy at MIT. He said it's the style they use in their testing." With each item, Tim's swagger and pride grew, and the rest of those gathered continued about their chores, except Ducky, who looked on with a sort of pity for the man who took such joy in gadgetry. "A fingertip pulse-oximeter, which, okay, he doesn't truly need, but it can't hurt to have one around. Oh, and here's the holy grail of personal scales. Feast your eyes upon this baby," he said, lifting a heavy box to his shoulder, displayed for all to see. "The Escali High-Capacity Bathroom Scale. It can measure your weight, your body fat, and your body water all within 2.5 seconds. With its clear glass top and precision instrumentation, this is the Lexus of in-home measuring devices."

"I thought you said it was the holy grail," Jimmy chimed in, working his fingers.

Tim tore his eyes away from the shiny packaging, and said, "What I'm trying to get at, Palmer, is this is one sweet piece of-"

"Glass?" Abby said, returning to the room after placing towels and bedding in the linen closet.

"Okay, laugh if you will, but this should impress you," Tim said, halting her with a hand. He gently placed the scale on the couch and picked up Tony's laptop. Scrolling through his iTune account, Tim said, "I downloaded this cool app onto Tony's computer. I'll synch it with his phone when he gets home. It's a medical calculator. That way Ton doesn't need to do any of the calculations his doctors might need him to do, and I think we all know Tony's creative math skills. Oh, one more thing!"

"Timothy, don't you think this is, for lack of better words, a bit of overkill?" Ducky asked, looking over the assortment of goods.

"Well, where Tony's health and welfare are concerned, I guess I'd rather be safe than sorry," Tim said, his hand halfway out of a different box.

"That is very generous of you, McGee," Ziva called from the kitchen.

"Thank you, Ziva," he replied, suffering the others' indignity. Pulling another package from yet another shipping container, Tim said, "I bought one of those hand sanitizers that they have in the hospital. You know the ones that are mounted on the walls, next to the doors? I thought we could place it right next to Tony's door, so whenever people come to visit, they could, well, sanitize."

"And we could also get some heavy-gauge plastic and, like, seal off this end of his apartment," Abby said, spreading her arms wide, her eyes large with sarcasm. "I could get a pair of those haz-mat gloves from my lab, and we could tape them into the side of the plastic so we could, ya know, hand Tony his meals and stuff."

Tim frowned, mindlessly rearranged his purchased goods, and said, "You're making fun of me."

"Little bit," Abby told him, peering through pinched fingers, but then a quirky smile came to her lips, and she wove an arm through his, and she said, "But, it's really, really nice what you're trying to do, Timmy. That's what makes you my hydrogen molecule."

Dubious and a little hurt, Tim looked down into Abby's eyes, and said, "Hydrogen molecule?"

"As in we have a bond, a covalent bond, and Tony is our shared little..."

"Atom. Got it." And then he felt better. No one else could destroy him and then build him up like Abby, and so he smiled at her, and knew he'd keep the other items to himself, like the stethoscope, the blood-sugar monitor and the fact that he replaced all the air filters in Tony's apartment with hepa filters.

"Speaking of purchasing things," Ducky said, pulling a smaller box from his coat pocket, "I bought a medical alert bracelet for Anthony. I can't remember the last time I bought jewelry for anyone, much less a man."

"Oh, and I contacted the nearest firehouse and told them Tony's a transplant patient," Ziva announced from the kitchen. "I also called his dentist and had them notate it in their records."

"Splendid," Ducky said, placing the jewelry box on Tony's desk. "Ziva, might you require any extra assistance in your culinary endeavors?"

Chopping fresh basil, Ziva did not look up. "No, thank you. I am right on schedule. I have already finished the muesli breakfast bars, the raspberry and dark chocolate scones, the wild rice and tarragon with baked chicken," she continued, scraping the vibrant green herbs into a standing pan, "and the sauce for the fettucini with clams, fresh tomatoes, basil and garlic is now...simmering."

"Tim, when you're ready, we can..." Jimmy began, gesticulating toward Tony's bedroom, his hands still aching. "You know, in the bedroom, Tony's bedroom, we can..."

Tim scowled, and said, "We can what, Palmer?"

His eyes closed to better gather his thoughts, his head bobbing as precursor to words, Jimmy Palmer said, "Yeah, I realize that might have... Um... But, what I meant to say was we can put together the new treadmill."

"Ah. Right," Tim said, striding across the room.

"Before you two disappear," Ducky said, stopping them both, "I thought we'd discuss some logistics of Tony's return. Ziva, are you able to break away from your pursuits?"

Wiping her hands on a dish towel, scanning all the pots and pans, Ziva nodded and said, "Yes, for a minute or two, I believe I am."

"Good," Ducky said, gathering the friends in a central locale. "I may be stating the obvious, and you will forgive me if I am, but when Tony comes home, we must take pains to remember that his recuperation will demand rest and a strict adherence to his drug protocol, but it will also entail a rather formidable attention to scheduling. In the next few months, Tony's calendar will be packed with appointments and procedures, as well as visits from his cardiac team. He mustn't become overtired with these appointments, but he mustn't become too sedentary, either." Walking to Tony's refrigerator, Ducky pulled a calendar from the side. "Now, I realize, Timothy, that this does not comply with your technological aesthetics, but it is efficient. I will be working with Tony to maintain his appointment schedule, which I will place on this calendar. Because he will not be allowed to drive for four to six weeks, Anthony will need to be transported. Gibbs has assured me that he will work with the director to allow the time for us to be Tony's transportation."

"I can always send out the calendar to your Outlook after the hard copy is made," Tony told the crew, pleased with his contribution to keep all things digital.

"Yes, well, that's fine," Ducky said, replacing the calendar on the refrigerator. "Where his drug protocol is concerned," he went on, a heaviness seeping into his carriage and words, "it will seem, especially in the first few weeks, that Anthony is running his own apothecary. The timing of his dosages must be followed precisely, and those dosages, a rather cumbersome amount of medications, will require an intimate knowledge on not only Tony's part, but on our part, as well, if we are to be his primary caretakers."

_Caretakers_. The word scratched against her skin, and Ziva bristled. Caretakers reminded her of Tony's diminished state, of how close he was to death, and how close he still might be. One who requires a caretaker also requires assistance in life's basic needs, and she believed she knew Tony well enough to know that that he, too, would resent the connotation, albeit the reality of his life. She ground her teeth together and scoured a dishrag across her hands.

"Now, just to reassure you," Ducky said, noticing Ziva's failed attempt to disguise her emotions, "Tony will not remain on such a large amount of medication for long. His dosages as well as the different medications will taper over time." A thought rushed into his mind, and Ducky made a quick dash to Tony's cupboard. Opening the door, he revealed a mini-poster with stamp-sized pictures of medication on it, and below the colorful assortment of drugs, bullet points of pertinent information. "Here are some of the drugs Anthony is currently taking, or will be taking. I will keep this updated as things change. You will be pleased to note, Timothy, that he will be required to keep careful records of his medication and will need to log them in on the hospital's website. As for the side affects," Ducky went on, closing the cupboard door and leaning against a kitchen counter, "please be aware of any tremors, nausea, and/or mood swings. Prednisone, although a miraculous drug, tends to be rather a bothersome one, at that."

"Hey, Duck," Tim said, "I saw a multi-use medication timer online, specifically designed for transplant patients. I could order it and have it delivered within 24 hours. Would that help?"

"I believe that would be beneficial, yes," Ducky said, nodding. He looked around the room, assessing the comfort level of each person. Mr. Palmer remained stoic, possibly realizing that the lion's share of responsibility would be on the others. Abby could be seen processing the information, much of which she already knew, her brow knit in contemplation and determination. Tim the task-master flew to his smartphone and ordered up the timer, and Ziva... Ziva, with her squared-off shoulders and feet, with her fingers twined behind her back, as if standing at attention, with her features set in practiced passivity, held the greatest concern for Ducky. In his years of working with Ziva, he had noted that there is a difference between being tough and being resilient. Ziva was tough, able to withstand hard work and long hours, able to endure torture and mental onslaughts. But with each blow, each death, each loss, Ziva closed a little more. She was not as resilient to this life as she might like to think, Ducky had often surmised.

"Our friend is at the end of a very long race," he told them, holding their attention with his gentle eyes. "This new race is just beginning. May it be a long one, indeed."

"Here here," Tim said, zipping through the pages on his phone.

Abby watched as Tim became engrossed in product reviews, and knowing how much he loved cross-referencing reviews from other sites, pulled her tool belt from the ground and motioned for Jimmy to follow her into Tony's bedroom. "Come on, Palmer. I'm about to snap it on," she flirted, cocking her head, taunting with her Cheshire smile. "You and I will do the deed in Tony's room."

Following her lead, Jimmy Palmer said, "Okay, just to be clear, I was talking about the treadmill."

In their retreat, Ducky turned to where Ziva had taken up once again preparing a recipe. "May I try the marinara sauce?" he asked, observing her rigidity.

"Be my guest," she said, though the hospitality in her voice was lacking. Nevertheless, Ducky dipped a spoon into the roiling sauce. He took care to cool it first, then touched the spoon to his mouth.

"Oh, my, yes," Ducky said, finishing the spoonful. "That's a-nice!" Ducky rinsed it off and laid it among the other dirty dishes.

Ziva wrenched the top off a can of chickpeas, and perfunctorily said, "I am pleased you like it." She readied a food processor for a new assortment of ingredients-chickpeas, tahini. She splashed in water, squeezed a lemon, a dash of cumin and cayenne, and set the machine awhirl. Dribbling olive oil into the neck of the processor, her fist anchored into her hip as she watched the combination blend, Ziva mind was also awhirl with thoughts, concerns, trepidation. Anxieties to anyone else, but not to a highly trained Mossad agent. No, that was an impossibility. Concerns, yes, she thought. Possibly minor fears, but never anxieties. After all-

"Eh, Ziva," Ducky said, tapping her shoulder, "I believe the consistency of hummus should be a smooth paste, _light_ on the oil." Ziva looked at Ducky, spooled back his words, and in a panic drew back the olive oil container. She punched the stop button on the machine, cracked the oil bottle onto the countertop, and began to swear in Arabic, only some of which Ducky was able to understand. "It's an easy fix, my dear," he assured her, gathering a second jar of chickpeas from the assortment of goods. "We'll just double the batch."

Ziva's eyes blinked. She sighed heavily, wiping her hands on the dishtowel. "What if it is not enough?"

Ducky peered at the can and then at the mixture in the processor. "Oh, I think this should be plenty."

"No," she said, and her words tumbled out, a disheartened array, "I mean our preparations. Our plans for his return. What if, after all this, after... after all he has endured, it is not enough?"

And there it was. Ducky put aside the canned goods, and stepped closer to her. When he did not speak, when the feel of his body so close to her own discomforted her, she turned to him. He held her for a long moment in his eyes, and finally said, "Tony is in good hands, Ziva. But, this...isn't what is bothering you, is it?"

She ground her teeth together and shook her head. "I am fine," she demanded, turning back toward the hummus.

"No, you're not," he said, reaching out for her hand, latched onto the counter. "What is it, Ziva?"

_That which you cannot control_, her father had so often told her, _is not worth worrying over. However, with enough training, will and perseverance, one can control everything_.

_I cannot control his health. I cannot control the future. I cannot control my heart from breaking..._

"Ziva, tell me what you are thinking."

She grasped hold of his hand, but could not look at him. What words were there to express what she did not want to accept? As was so often the case, when her soul rasped out the keening words of sorrow, they often did so in the language of her birth. "Be-'éyn tachbūlōt yippol `ām; ū-teshū`āh be-rov yō'éts," she said. "It means 'Where there is no guidance, a nation falls, but in an abundance of counselors there is safety.'"

"Ah, yes," Ducky said. "Proverbs, I believe, as well as-"

"The Mossad motto," she said, and nodded. "Yes."

"But what does this have to do with Tony?"

Ziva bit her lower lip, looked about the room, her eyes never lighting on any specific place. "Tony has the best cardiac-care team, yes?" She slid her hand out from his and pulled at her shaking fingers. "Even so, I am... having difficulty believing he is...safe."

"Oh, my dear," Ducky said, wrapping one arm across her back. "But he _is_ safe. For now. There are no...guarantees in this life, you know that. All we can do is our best, and hope for the best. In the meantime, we are reminded of the brevity of _all_ our lives." Beneath the thin cloth of her shirt, Ducky felt Ziva tremble. He drew in closer to her, his warm cheek near her own. "We do what we can. We help him in whatever way we know how, and take comfort knowing it is something. 'For by wise guidance, you can wage your war,'" he said, tightening his embrace a touch.

Ziva found a smile through her sadness, and patted his hand. She bowed her head and closed her tired eyes. "Thank you, Ducky. I am...embarrassed by my lack of..."

"It comes in waves," he said, nodding. "Just when you believe you are in the clear, another wave crashes into you. Even after the sea is calm, you still feel the rollicking, crashing waves."

"Yes," she whispered, reaching for her Star of David. "I am just tired, I suppose."

"We all are, my darling girl," he said. He gave her one last embrace, and then said, "Now, about this hummus."

With a sharp intake of air and a shake of her head, Ziva nodded. "Yes, about the hummus."

****

**What a strange world** they had all become accustomed to-a world of antiseptics and scrubs, of IV poles and monitors. It no longer gave them pause when nurses and doctors interrupted their conversations to take readings, administer drugs, or ask Tony questions about his condition. When he slid out of a chair, rather than jumped out. When he'd hold a gentle hand over his incision before turning or stretching his back.

What still amazed them, however, was how easily Tony spoke the jargon of this new world. "My echo look good?" he'd ask his doctor, and the doctor would nod, and say, "Yes. Got an EF rating of 67%, and your biopsy measured at zero." "How about inflammation. Last time it was 7.5." "Zero." "Nice. Thanks, Doc." At times, Ziva swore they were making stuff up.

Then again, she mused, it shouldn't be that surprising. For all his adolescent behavior and work at trying to create the ultimate hipster, Tony had always been a quick study, with a keen mind and an ability to access and utilize information on the fly. It's what made him an exceptional investigator.

Still, it kind of irked her to realize that he may just be smarter than even she realized, a fact she'd never divulge.

Walking along the corridor of his ward, his arm slung companionably across her shoulder, Tony and Ziva talked quietly, about nothing in particular. Office tidbits, news from Washington. Tony had told her the story about Dorothy and Fornell, which made Ziva laugh out loud. Coming close to his door, Tony stopped, tweaked an eyebrow, and looked down at her.

"What?" she said, scooting out from under his arm.

"I've been cleared for, um, steps. Stairs," he told her, his words thick with innuendo, the quick adjustment of vocabulary notwithstanding.

"So you may now climb between floors?" she said, squinting, knowing there was something missing, perhaps coming that would exasperate her. And she would love it... "This is news how?"

"Yes, I can climb stairs, among other things," he said, sauntering into his room, beckoning her to follow with his flirtatious demeanor. The swagger had returned, Ziva thought with a smile. Not quite as grandiose, but there. "Those other things being the formidable ascent I plan to make up the very long, very shapely legs of a certain blond...um, uh...well, a blond I recently met."

Ziva guffawed, quite unfazed to his lapses in memory, and said, "Yes, well, I wouldn't put this particular horse in front of that particular car."

Tony spun toward her, pressing out his chest the best he could, shading his eyes, accessing his inner Clint Eastwood. "Cart, with a T, as in not Henry Ford's model, which, of course, she is. A model, that is. Well, was."

"Yes, of course she is."

Tony raised his chin, looked down his narrow nose at her, and said, "It's important to have goals, Ziva, big goals. Big, like what's waiting at the top of those long legs, two very big-"

"Oh, please," she said, pushing by him, laughing. "You really think the first thing you are going to do is go out and find a woman to bed?"

Tony turned, and from across the room caught a glimpse of himself in the darkened window. He smoothed down the sides of his hair, and said, "Still sippin' the Hatorade, I see."

This is what she missed, this brash, pretentious Tony, full of himself and his prowess. How she had missed it. And she missed that part of her that loved to tear him down. So she wiped the smile off her face, lowered her eyes, raised a shoulder, just a touch, and swiveled to face him. "Maybe you are right. I shouldn't have snapped to judgment so quickly." She slid near him, her dark eyes pausing a languorous moment on his lips, her own lips parted, and said, "Forgive me. This is a very important step for you, Tony, if you...truly believe you are ready." She reached out and touched the pads of her extended fingers to his arm.

His eyes pinched in confusion, Tony said, "I do. Why wouldn't I?" Was she really coming on to him?

Ziva locked eyes with Tony and began to circle from front to back, trailing a finger around his arm. His skin prickled with anticipation. "I would think it would be unnerving, the very thought of such...physical exertion, so soon after surgery."

"Uh," he garbled, cleared his throat and tried again, all the while craning to see where she was behind him, and when his words wouldn't quite flow, it had everything to do with the feeling of being off balance, and nothing to do with his cognitive abilities. "Uh, this is, uh... What's, uh...?"

Coming round the front again, Ziva stood close to him, so that the heat of her breath could be felt on his skin. One hand painted its way down his arm. "You and I have become very close these past months. You cannot deny there have been certain...intimacies shared."

"Well, now that you mention it," he said, swallowing hard, refusing...unable to look at her, lest his eyes catch her decolletage. God help him if they did...

"Perhaps you are right," she whispered, combing back her hair, exposing her long, sensuous neck. He tried hard not to look, but it was so just there! "Perhaps it is time you and I..."

Light-headed, knowing it wasn't his heart condition, Tony stumbled back and laughed. "Ha. Yeah. This is... Yeah. Uh-huh. W-w-what's going on?"

Ziva straightened her back, practically skipped toward the daybed, and chortled. "You are not ready."

Blinking, desperate to get the upper hand again, even though, presently, he had no feeling from the waist up, Tony said, "What are you talking about?"

Ziva spun on her heels, threw back her head in laughter, and said, "You! You speak as if you are-how do they say-a playa?-but you are most definitely...not ready for any ascents, big or small."

Tony's lips curled into a smile, knowing he had been bested, and said, "Yeah. Okay. Uh-huh. So, uh, this was just a little test, then, there, Zee-vah?"

"Oh, I'd say a very accurate test," she laughed, plopping down on the daybed. "And you...you are not ready to. Go. There," she said, emphasizing each word with a point of her finger and fiery, teasing eyes.

Tony stopped to let her taunts wash over him, fully enjoying her cruelty. Nobody knew him like her, and nobody made him feel so off-kilter as she did. "Fine. Go ahead and laugh." And she did. Let her, he thought. He knew there had been far too few moments for her to laugh in the last months. Yes, laugh...

Setting his jaw once again, and Tony said, "You may be right. After all," he said, taking his punishment like a man and pouring himself into his made bed, "I'd be lying if I told you it didn't give me cause for concern. I think I read in Esquire magazine that having a massive c... um, coronary on the first date is in bad taste."

"Yes," Ziva said, "especially right _on_ the date."

"Exactly," he said, crossing his ankles, reaching up to cross his arms under his head, and realizing quickly that he had a few more weeks of physical therapy left before he could do that. "So, how long can you stay?"

"I have no plans," Ziva said, tucking her feet beneath her.

Tony pressed the buttons on his bed to activate the TV, and said, "Let's see what Robert Osbourne has in store for us."

While Tony ran through the channels, Ziva ran through their conversation, enjoying their lascivious, indiscrete moment. Suddenly, she realized she had overlooked a central message in his explanation of being able to ascend stairs. "Tony, what exactly does that mean, you can climb steps?"

Settling on AMC, Tony narrowed his eyes, and said, "It means it's all biscuits and gravy. Chips and dip. Di and Nozzo."

"I am still unclear."

"It means it's all good, Agent David," he said, one side of his mouth curling up. "It means I can go home tomorrow."

Her jaw slung wide, and she could hardly speak. "That's wonderful. That's remarkable. That's...that's..."

"Yeah, I feel the same way," he said.

Home, she thought. He's actually going home. This has an end. The "when" is here. Her skull felt perforated. Dizzy with happiness, she rushed her fingers to her face, shook her head, and tried to grab onto one, _any_ careening thought. "This is... I mean, yes... I..."

Tony watched her, and it filled him with such pleasure. If the realization that he was being discharged hadn't quite sunk in, this wellspring of Ziva's delight anchored it that much further. He found himself grinning, amazed yet again that the interminable days and weeks had an end point, and that his partner would so perfectly understand it.

In a snap, her hands were signing through the air, giving motion to a jumble of thoughts. Her eyes were alive, and she began a run of staccato items. "Well, your apartment is spotless, and I have been cooking. Your freezer is full. McGee, he has supplied you with every gadget on the market, and Ducky, well, Ducky has-"

"Hey, you're going to hurt yourself, there, achoti," Tony said, playfully scowling at her.

And so she breathed, drawing in air down to her depths, and she nodded her thanks. "This is very good news."

"Yes, it is," Tony told her, smiling, holding her attention with keen, slightly moist eyes. Which he wished away, running a hand across his lips, pinching his nose. "Anyhow..." He pointed to the screen, and said, "Look, it's Cary Grant at his finest."

Ziva extricated herself from the swirl of excitement at Tony's return home to look up at the TV screen. "Oh. Oh, yes. I know this movie. It is..." She tapped her forehead, clamped shut her eyes until she could remember. "'A Love Story,' or 'Remember the Affair,' or..."

"'An Affair to Remember.' 1957. Directed by Leo McCarey, who also directed the 1939 film 'Love Affair,' of which this is, in my opinion, a superior remake."

"They are to meet atop a building, yes?" Ziva asked, scooting for a more comfortable position on the daybed.

"The Empire State Building, to be exact, a promise they make at exactly 59 minutes into the movie, exactly halfway through the film," he told her, watching Terry McKay and her fiance, Ken, take in the interview on television with Nicky Ferrante and his fiancee.

"Right, but she doesn't make it to the top," Ziva continued, looking on with fascination at the movie, excited that she remembered so much of it. "So he is left believing she doesn't love him."

"Until he comes to her at Christmas," Tony added. "'And to every woman he meets he asks, "Where will you be in six months?"'" he said, imitating the inimitable Cary Grant.

"Yes," Ziva said, "and he brings her a present."

"His grandmother's shawl."

"Who had recently died."

"'She wanted you to have it, remember?'" Tony added, taking in every nuance on the screen. "God, would you take a look at that man's glorious tan. I need a tan. Can I go to tanning salons anymore?"

"No," she reminded him, having read his drug-interaction sheet. Ziva, becoming more engrossed in the film, at Deborah Kerr's striking red hair and heart-shaped face, said, "It's then that he realizes she, Terry, is the poor woman who bought his painting."

"'If it had to happen to one of us,'" Tony went on, continuing to mimic his idol, "'why'd it have to be you?'"

A shiver went through her, his words cutting too close to wounds still raw in her soul. "Yes," she said as the temperature in her voice cooled. "This is a lovely movie."

Having felt the shift, Tony turned to her. She was stiff again, he thought. How often had he watched her create that facade of control, and at what expense? Remembering what Gibbs had told him just days before, Tony reached his hand out to her. "Hey, you can't be very comfortable over there. Why don't you join me?"

Ziva pulled her attention away from the film she wasn't truly watching anymore, and said, "What? Oh. No. Thank you, but no."

"Come on," Tony said, waving her over. "There's plenty of room, a distinct lack of tubing, and, it goes without saying, there's me. Jump on up."

"No. No, I am fine here," she said. "Besides, I wouldn't want to-"

"You're not gonna hurt me, Ziva," Tony told her. "My chest is trussed up like a goth on the way to Convergence. Come on! How often do you get a chance to get in, uh... um, you know, up here with me?"

"Since last week?" she coyly asked.

"I was still on the Morphine pump. It couldn't be helped."

Ziva harrumphed, paused while considering his offer, and then thought better of it. "No, I'm fine over here on the daybed."

"Then you give me no choice," Tony said, swinging his feet out of the bed, which torqued his chest just enough to send a zing of pain through him. He winced, but continued on. "If Mohammad won't come to the mountain..."

"Says the Christian to the Jew," she laughed, proffering a hand to him without thinking about it, a hand he took, without truly needing it.

"We're all sons and daughters of Abraham, my sister," Tony told her, reaching for the back of the daybed. "Scootch over."

Ziva held her spot for a moment to make a point that she would not be ordered around by anyone, and then capitulated with an exaggerated snort. Tony plunked down next to her, crossed his legs, and wrapped an arm across the back of the sofa. Sensing her tension, not at his proximity, but due to something he had said, Tony simply watched the film and mouthed every line. He offered her time to calm herself. Now and again he'd spy on her, taking surreptitious looks at those black eyes that were pointed toward the screen but were truly in another corridor of thought. He reached his hand down from behind her, chucked her on the shoulder, and asked, "Hey, how ya doin'?"

Surprised by his question, Ziva gathered herself before answering. "Me? I am fine."

"Really?" he asked.

"Really."

Back to the screen, they both focused. It was easier to get lost in Nicky Ferrante's life than in this life of surgeries and hospitalization and life expectancy. But when the art dealer said, "What do you expect in three months?" Tony took it as a sign to press on.

"Hey, don't know if you noticed," he began, quietly, as if his next words were so inconsequential as to be bothersome, "but I've been sick."

"I know," she said, riveting her eyes to the screen. "I was here."

"That's kind of my point," Tony said, his attention to the movie ebbing. "You _have_ been here. Through it all."

Ziva, uncomfortable with his words, pointed her hand to the screen, and said, "I am trying to watch the movie, hmm?..."

Tony nodded, almost allowing her to pull him from his objective. "Yeah, but the thing is," he went on, and Ziva sighed, "I never thought to ask you... I mean, I'm the one who had to go through the...the...uh, surgeries and all, but..." How could he say it without causing her to jump up and away from her? He so often walked that fine line with her, between cutting too deeply and just grazing the surface. He took a deep breath and began again. "You were there. You saw it all, and even if you don't have any incisions, I'd lay odds that you have a couple scars."

"It is minor in comparison," she allowed, knotting her fingers, until the tendons stuck out like wires.

"Still... So, I guess I want to know," he said, turning to face her, "how've you been?"

"I told you," she said, the rigidity returning. "I am fine."

A different mode would have to be taken, he thought. He peeled his eyes from her and placed his focus back on the screen, where Terry McKay was beginning her nightclub act. He thought about telling Ziva that Deborah Kerr wasn't actually singing, that Marnie Nixon had sung the part, but thought better of it. Even so, it was fascinating to him that Marnie Nixon had done the same for Deborah Kerr in "The King and I," kind of a clone performance, and that's when it hit him.

He began with a laugh, a quick icebreaker that told Ziva the subject had changed, or so she would think. "Ya know, I was thinking."

"Always a cause of great entertainment," she said without considering the harshness of her words. She washed her hands through the air, and said, "I am sorry. I should not have-"

"No. No, that's all right," he told her, smiling. Nicky Ferrante was painting a billboard, a beer ad with a buxom brunette, and Cary Grant placed his head comfortably in the woman's cleavage. "Wouldn't it be great to be a clone?"

"A clone?" she asked, playing along.

"Think of the possibilities. Get twice the work done. Double book dates? Send in the clone."

"This happens often to you?" she giggled.

"Sure. All the time," he lied. "Okay, once in a- Fine, rarely." He could feel her relaxing, and he draped a hand across her shoulder. "The thing is, if I had a clone...Oh, man, if I had a clone..." Ziva smiled, reached up and took hold of his hand, a gesture of their friendship and camaraderie. She liked his strange stories, even if she'd never tell him that. "Like, one could sit here, with all his original organs, and one could sit over there with a transplanted heart." At this, Ziva turned away, knowing his game, a little embarrassed that she had been sucked in. Still, he persisted. "Both debonair and well-dressed, obviously."

"Well, certainly," she said, trying her best not to succumb.

"And then this one could say, 'Hey, so Ziva, I hear you've got a friend who's been sick. Near death, as a matter of fact. I imagine that was pretty rough on you.'"

"Tony-"

"So, the clone would be that friend who you can tell everything to, the one you really, really could use about now," he went on, and Ziva held her breath. "So he'd ask, 'How've ya been?' And, you'd tell him because he...doesn't have an eight-inch scar on his chest."

She would not be so easily undone, so she remarked, "Yes, but he'd still share the same insipid intellect."

"Don't change the subject," he demanded of her, and in his words, she knew this fishing expedition was as close as either of them could come right now to such honesty. "Tell me, Ziva. Would you answer him?"

Ziva blinked, cleared her throat, and found her voice barely able to be heard. "Yes, I would answer him. That would be...nice."

"So," he said, feeling how close she was, "what would you say if a handsome, sexy clone asked you how you were feeling?"

Her eyes trying hard to not waver from the screen, she said, "I would say...I feel like a stone that has been tumbled in the surf. Worn, I suppose."

And there it was. Tony wove his fingers through hers, brushed his thumb against her hand, and pressed forward. "Did...that knucklehead over there...Did he ask too much?"

Did he ask for her to sit with him all those nights and days? No. Had he ever asked her to take deep breaths for him when he no longer could? Never. Had he ever intimated that he couldn't survive without her? Not once. And he never had to. "No," she said. "He is my partner. He is...my friend. He would do the same for me. He..._has_ done the same for me." Terry McKay began to sing of a love affair that had been torn out of time and space. Ziva smiled a little, the symmetry of their friendship and the movie's love story touching and appropriate. "Was this your little test for me?"

"Nah, I'm done testing you," Tony whispered, drawing his hand from hers and embracing her shoulder. "Come here."

At first she fought his advances because she always had. But he had always been well before, and she had always been just his partner. Always, it seemed, was a word that no longer applied, and that alone touched her a little too deeply, so she allowed herself to be drawn closer to him. Allowed him to nestle her under his arm. Allowed her head to rest upon his shoulder, his strong hand to smooth back her hair.

In words light as a dream, he whispered above her, "I'm not going anywhere, Ziva."

With her ear pressed to him, the melodious, muted beat of his heart could be felt, and she gasped. Tears formed in her eyes. She tried not to be heard, tried so hard, but when she sniffed, when she wiped a shaking hand under her eye, she felt his lips, so soft and warm, press against her hair, and that was her undoing.

Holding her so close, not concerned about nor even experiencing any pain, Tony felt something budding inside him, something long dormant. For months people had cared for him, helped him with life's essentials. His machismo had taken a toll in those weeks when he had been stripped of independence, of anything that might require those masculine virtues he had been raised to rely on. Here, with his friend, his partner in his arms, Ziva was receiving all that he could offer her, but more so, she was offering him a chance to give her something. Friendship, support, a shoulder to cry on, a chance to release the sadness and pain that she had shackled deep inside. And so she cried, each tear releasing a portion of her burden. And he let her, for all the times when he could do nothing but watch her despair from across the room.

"So take my hand with a fervent prayer," Deborah Kerr serenaded her audience, and Tony joined in, singing two octaves above his natural tessitura, "that we may live, and we may share a love affaaaaaair..." Ziva's tears paused, and a giggle bubbled up inside her, and with one deep breath, Tony went on, about to hit a ridiculously high note. "...to remeeeemmmmmmber!"

Dissolved in laughter, two friends began the arduous process of healing. And of living once again.


	19. Chapter 19

**It's Complete! This is the final chapter in this strange tale that was supposed to take two, three months tops to write. Good lord, whole societies have come and gone in the time I took to write this thing. **

**For all of you who stuck with this story, I thank you. For all the words of encouragement, both for this story and for me and my family, you will never know how much they meant to me. I am grateful to all.**

**So, without further ado, I offer the final chapter. It's a long one. Happy summer to all Northern hemisphere-ites, and happy winter to all Southern hemisphere-ites! **

**Don't forget to sign your donor cards!**

**It had been a damn kind thing** for Gibbs to have some of Tony's clothes tailored. Yes, it was odd having Mr. Chinni, his tailor, muttering prayers and words of pity while he was measuring the newly-thin Tony, most of which were in Italian, only some of which Tony understood. Still, it was nice having clothes that fit. Nice of Mr. Chinni to send along a couple crisp shirts, too. It was important to look good. You could fool a lot of people into believing your station in life just by wearing the right suit. Hell, his dad had done it for years.

Now, if Tony could just convince himself.

Though he was aware he had lost weight, it wasn't until Tony had pulled out the button-down shirt he found in his tiny closet, the shirt he had been wearing when he was admitted, that he realized he'd lost more than weight. The shoulder seams draped two inches below where they once had; the neck gaped open where it was once taut. If that weren't enough, the placard scratched against his incision, even though it was covered with a long, white dressing. He wasn't normally an undershirt kind of guy, but things change...

When Tim had lost all that weight, Tony took great joy in insinuating the cause-McAnorexic, Probulimic. "You're dieting like a high school cheerleader, McLaxative," Tony had teased. "The good news is, you'll be the only one on the squad with your virginity intact. Your mother will be so proud."

He was sure he'd be in for some ribbing. Tony thought he'd better start preparing for it. He wasn't at all sure he'd be able to brush off comments about his diminished physique as easily as he'd like. Truth be told, he could hardly look at himself in the mirror without the unfamiliar reflection singeing the still-raw edges of his nerves.

Tony clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. No use worrying about things he had no control over. Still, he wanted to be able to leave the place dressed as well as when he came in. It was important to him, in some absolutely inconsequential way. Not that he remembered that day. Nor many of those days preceding his collapse.

Glancing out his window, at a life that he would reenter in mere minutes, Tony dismissed the melodrama of what he had endured, what he would be experiencing in the future. The past was past, and the future would take care of itself, and if he could just keep repeating that, then he'd actually start believing it, and then maybe his pulse would slow down.

"Knock it off, would ya?" he told himself, and tucked in his shirt, the first time he'd done so in months, and the feel of his jutting hip bones against his palm brought him back twenty years, the last time he had been so thin. Of course, then he was fit. Now, not so much.

But he was alive, dammit, and that counted for more than a hill of beans in this crazy world. A lot more.

He had to start somewhere. It was time to go forward, just like Gibbs had told him so often, time to regain his life, and if all he could do was adorn the facade of style and grooming, well, then that's what he'd do.

Only a couple more items in the overnight bag that Gibbs had brought him-a belt, his watch, shoes. His wallet. God, it had been a long time since he'd bothered with that. Tony opened it and found just about twenty-two dollars. His license had expired, but the director had taken care of the paperwork. Nice of him. Slide it into the back pocket. Done.

Here, too, was just another thing that should have been so banal as to not require thought, but slipping the belt through his pant loops, a belt Tony was sure had never belonged to him, brought him to a complete stop.

He was dressing to go home. Home. Even the conjuration of that word took his breath away.

Tony scowled, let out a rush of air, and shook his head. "It's not a big deal. Had to get out of this joint some time."

Tony drew his Omega watch from the bag, another item he had not seen in months. He wasn't sure how the band would feel around his wrist, the last of his IVs having only recently been removed. He slid his hand through the opened stainless steel band, the metal clinking, a familiar sound, the sound of power and refinement, a sound Tony was pleased to hear once again. Without having to look, as casually as if it were just any day, he flipped the lock, and it clicked in place. He torqued his forearm, testing whether the Omega was going to bother the still raw puncture point that was covered by a thin bandaid, but it wasn't too bad. Having his watch on and all the normalcy that surrounded such a banal thing outweighed any discomfort. Actually, if he thought about it, it fit a little too well.

"Well, I just gotta say, the man is nothing if not thorough," Tony said to no one, adjusting the watch on his wrist, realizing that Gibbs would have thought of this as well-removing a link or two from the band so it wouldn't hang, so it would wear like DiNozzo was supposed to be thirty-five pounds lighter.

When the door opened behind him, Tony didn't bother glancing back. Gibbs had said he'd only be a couple minutes. "Ya 'bout ready, DiNozzo?"

Tossing his words over his shoulder, Tony answered with a quiet, "Yeah." Last, his shoes. Tony pulled them from the bag, dropped them to the floor-something he would never normally do. After all, you don't just disrespect Bruno Magli's Merola penny loafers, unless, of course, respecting a pair of shoes required bending over. Then, Tony discerned, respecting his comfort was much more valuable than a pair of shoes. Now, if Gibbs had packed the Jeffrey-West Chuckas, Tony might have made an exception.

He slipped on the soft shoes, and felt a step closer to normal. Gibbs grabbed the empty duffel and just waited.

One more look out the window. Done. He opened the bedside-table drawer, just to make sure it was empty. Swept the walls, just to make sure they were cleared. Peeked into the bathroom, just to make sure-

"Tony," Gibbs said, keeping his words quiet, "it's all in the car. I've got your coat. Time to go."

Tony locked eyes with Gibbs, and Gibbs straightened. In the silence, certain messages were conveyed between two friends, one message of support, the other of fear; one of acknowledgement, the other of acceptance. Tony drew in breath, narrowed his eyes, and said, "Let's go."

He had been preparing for the goodbyes, catching them as he could. After all, the ward was a busy place, and he knew he wasn't the only patient. And now, not even a patient, having signed all the discharge papers, having heard all the instructions. It wasn't as if he'd never see them again-hell, he'd be back in a week for his first outpatient appointment. But he wouldn't be living here anymore. God willing, he added as an afterthought...

So, it was hardly worth considering, these perfunctory goodbyes. A thousand patients had come and gone through these halls, probably tens of thousands. He was just one more. But when he and Gibbs walked out of his room for the last time, when Gibbs eased off and laid back, when Tony took his eyes off the floor and looked up, they were all there-Morgan, his occupational therapist; his surgeon, Doctor Tanner, with a different pair of overly expensive shoes; Carmen and Suzanne, the shift LPNs, who fought over which one Tony would choose to bring home; Meredith, the one nurse Tony wasn't as fond of, but her stethoscope was always warm. Jaynie. Ah, Jaynie...

Then there was Dorothy, and that's when it hit him.

She had brought him beef broth. Why that one lousy cup of dirty water had meant so much to him, he didn't know, but she had brought it, offered to help him drink it, and had done so with a look in her eye that was incredibly complex. It was "You're sick; I'll take good care of you; you will get better" all at the same time, and Tony knew right then that he was going to have to rely on that look.

And it was always there, sometimes accompanied by popsicles. Red. Saying goodbye to Dorothy was going to be a lot harder than he cared to admit. Thankfully, she was last in line. If he could hold it together and get to the end of the reception line, he just might be able to get out of this place with his last shred of dignity intact.

But first up, his surgeon. A couple good, manly handshakes, a heartfelt appreciation for his skills, a few reminders about what to expect, and with that dose of testosterone, Tony knew he could continue on through the line.

"Tony," said Morgan, her outstretched arms capturing his shoulders, "you have been a trip."

Tony took hold of her arms, jutted forth his jaw, and said, "And you have been mean, cantankerous, exacting and tenacious."

"It's what I do," she said, landing a kiss on his cheek.

A kiss that took Tony by surprise. He blinked, regained his bearings, and smiled. "Oh, okay. Wow. Well, that was nice. Thanks," he finally said, and she nodded. "No," he said, shaking his head, "I mean-thank you."

"We'll see you in a couple days," she told him, and ended it with a wink.

Going forward, Tony shook the hands of nurses, orderlies, even the carpenter he had befriended when the man was going room to room, changing over the new haz-mat dispensers.

Jaynie was next. Jaynie, the last woman his old heart had fallen for. She took him in with a coy smile and coquettishly batting eyelashes, and he her with half-veiled eyes. "The offer still stands, Jaynie," he told her, holding open his arms, an invitation he had so often given her.

"I might just take you up on it," she said, reaching up to hug him, again startling Tony with another show of kindness. He had to bend over to hug the diminutive nurse, but it was worth it.

He should have tucked his face into the supple skin at the base of her neck, told her that her words, her soft, comforting hand had meant the world to him in those minutes waiting for surgery, the harrowing hours after surgery. But it was too close for him. Too near the tipping point, so, uncoiling his arms from around her, Tony said, "I think we could be very happy together."

"Oh, you," she said, demurely swatting his arm.

"So you'll think about it? Yeah, you'll think about it," he said, grinning. Turning to Gibbs, he added, "Boss, she's gonna think about it."

Gibbs rolled his eyes, and shifted Tony's coat from one arm to the other. The fact that Dorothy was next in line was not lost on Gibbs. Nor was Tony's sophomoric attempt at making light of the situation. Gibbs knew it was just his senior agent's way of dealing with the enormity of it all. So he gave Tony his space, but kept shuffling on down the line, prompting Tony to do the same.

When Tony reached the end of the receiving line, when he came face to face with Dorothy, he smiled, a tight, closed-lip smile, and tried to swallow.

Dorothy clamped down tight on her burgeoning emotions. The truth of the matter was he was just another patient. Just another set of records. It was her job, after all, to be kind, to be a comfort.

But once in a great while, a patient arrived who made a lasting impression-whether through personality, through courage, through the quiet, dark hours of the night, when the world was asleep, save a battling man and a nurse far past the hours of her shift. And maybe it had started as a kindness shown to an old friend, a sort of repayment for all the comfort Gibbs had shown her through her own quiet, dark hours that seemed to surround the demise of her marriage. Whatever the case, here was this man, so much more than just a chart, standing before her, ready to go home, a remarkable concept given what she had seen him go through, and she knew her life now included a new friend.

"Dorothy," Tony said, more of a whisper than a voice, his eyes bright with emotion.

She shook her head. She would not do this, not in front of the others. Dorothy pulled a wheelchair closer to Tony, and said, "One last ride."

And he smiled at her, knowing the game all too well. "Why not?" he said, lowering himself, quirking an eyebrow to glance at her sidelong. "After all, it's been one helluva ride so far."

Pushing off, Dorothy said, "Yes, it has."

Those who had gathered called out their goodbyes, rushed by him, clapping his shoulder, capturing his hand, moving on with their rounds. Gibbs followed behind, never infiltrating this important moment that Tony alone had to see through.

At the end of the hall, Tony reached back and grabbed Dorothy's hand. "Hang on a minute," he said, and Dorothy brought the wheelchair to a stop. Tony pushed himself up and out of the chair, squared off his shoulders, and turned to face the long corridor.

Patients with family members shuffled down the hall, IV poles grasped in their hands; nurses and doctors sailed by each other, weaving in and out of rooms, some floating orders and laughter behind them; monitors beeped and intercoms broadcast; orderlies pulled trays of food from their carts. A portable ultrasound machine was wheeled into Mrs. McCarthy's room. Sweet woman. Had a DNR. Only a matter of time...

Without taking his eyes off this place he knew so well, Tony said, "Hey, Dorothy. Let me walk to the elevators."

Pride thrummed inside Gibbs, and he waited to see if Dorothy would try to deny Tony this one favor.

"Sure," she said.

One last look down the bright hall; one last time to consider all the months and days and hours spent within its walls. Tony clucked his tongue against his cheek, peered at Gibbs, who gave him the courtesy of averting his eyes, and then he was ready to go.

"So endeth the career of Very Special Patient Anthony DiNozzo," he said, punching the automatic door opener. Through the double doors, around the corner, and to the elevator bay, the three remained quiet, knowing that at any minute Dorothy would require her patient, at least for the next few minutes, to sit back down. Months of practice had taught Tony that trying to fight with a nurse was an exercise in futility, so without being asked, Tony thanked Dorothy and took his seat once again.

Once inside the elevator, the Musak infused the enclosure with the soft sounds of the eighties, and Dorothy asked, "You have all your phone numbers?"

"Yup," Tony said, watching each floor's number light up and go dark.

"You know when to call?"

"I wanna go with when the Riunite's on ice, but..." A quick slap to the back of the head, and Tony said, "I've missed you, Boss."

"Answer the lady," Gibbs told him.

Smoothing down his hair, Tony said, "Whenever I have a question. Whenever I have a fever over one-hundred degrees. Whenever there's swelling in my feet and ankles. Whenever my weight goes up precipitously."

"And when shouldn't you call?" Dorothy asked, as the elevator doors slid open. Tony flipped through all the information he had been given, and not once did anyone mention anything about when not to call. The look of consternation on his face made Dorothy smile, so she bent over and whispered into his ear, "You should not call to get Jaynie's phone number or schedule."

With a hearty laugh, Tony said, "Well, yeah."

"But I'm working on it," she said, pushing him out of the lift and into the hospital's lobby. "Your car ready, Jethro?" Gibbs lifted a hand and pointed to the dark blue sedan, parked right outside the doors. "Why don't you put your coat on, Tony? The cold air is going to shock your system without it."

"I'm a big boy, Dorothy," Tony told her.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs said, and handed Tony his coat.

Tony took one look at Gibbs and grabbed hold of his coat. "What I was saying, Dorothy, is I'm a big boy, and being a big boy, I like to wear big boy coats." Dorothy helped him slide into the long, wool overcoat, turning down the collar in the back. Then they were out the door.

He needed more time, a few extra yards, to figure out what he was going to say to her, but all of a sudden, they were in front of the car. Dorothy activated the brakes on the wheels, and Gibbs gave Tony a hand.

Once on his feet, the cold air slapped Tony's face, and he closed his eyes against its brusqueness. His shoulders rounded toward his ears, and he squirreled his fingers into the sleeves. Outside. The smell of exhaust assaulted him, and he coughed. The sun's glare burned his eyes, and he squinted. A breeze whispered by him, and he wavered.

"Ya okay?" Gibbs asked.

Caught off guard, Tony chuckled, and said, "You'd be surprised how few gusts of wind blow through the CCU."

Goodbyes were important, Dorothy knew, but so was staying away from frostbite. She rubbed her hands together, and said, "Okay, well." Gibbs pressed a kiss to her cheek, a hand to her back.

"Thank you for taking care of my agent," Jethro whispered in her ear.

"You just don't screw up my work," she said, which made him laugh. Gibbs opened the passenger side door and waited. And waited.

Dorothy rubbed her arms, and said, "Get in the car, Tony."

One last task to take care of, and Tony knew it would be the hardest. He turned to her, bobbled his head, and tried to smile. "That anxious to get rid of me, are ya, Dorothy?"

She would have none of it. Dorothy wrapped her arms around him, and pressed her warm cheek to his. And whether it was the cold, or perhaps the sadness of saying goodbye, Dorothy began to shake. "Take good care of yourself."

As for Tony, he clutched his hands to her back, ground his teeth together, and tried to breathe. "What would I have done without you?"

"You would have been fine."

"I doubt it."

"You're not done with me," she told him, her voice cracking, betraying the stoicism she hoped to portray. "I'll be here when you come back for your appointments."

"I'm counting on it," Tony told her, and forced himself to let her go. "Thanks for the popsicles."

"You know where to go if you ever need one," she said, giving his hand an embrace. "Tony?"

"Yeah, Dorothy."

She should be more professional, she scolded herself. She shouldn't have become so attached, so full of empathy for this man. She snapped her fingers, pointed accusatorially at him, a lousy diversion from her true feelings, and said, "Now remember, you're iron is still low. You're gonna feel weak. Don't try to be a hero."

"I'm no hero." Tony took a deep breath, wanting to say so much more, but words never seemed to capture it all for him. So he smiled, tapped his heart, and lowered his eyes.

"Ready?" Gibbs asked, sensing his agent needed this interruption.

"Yeah, I think I am." Tony eased himself into the passenger's seat, Gibbs assisting him. Once his feet where safe within the confines of the car, Gibbs shut the door, gave Dorothy one last goodbye, and rounded to his side of the car. Tony turned to his window and watched Dorothy scuttle toward the hospital and warmth. He smiled and hoped she knew how thankful he was.

"Okay," Gibbs said, closing his door. He reached to the backseat and pulled a small travel pillow into the front. "Here," he said, carefully lifting Tony's seatbelt from his chest. "Put this under the belt. Dorothy's orders."

Tony paused while considering the need for such a thing, but then tucked the pillow between him and the belt. Probably should have taken the same precautions for years driving with Gibbs. And Ziva.

Gibbs clicked in his belt, and they were off. Once on the main avenue, Tony craned his head to see the whole building. He counted up five floors and tried to guess where his room had been. Somewhere up there, nonetheless. He wondered if there was someone up there just taking their first steps, or waiting for a heart. Or dying.

Tony reached his fingers down to the seat controls and eased the seat back. Each bump in the road seemed to be a fist cracking against his sternum, and Tony closed his eyes. So much of pain, he had been told, is just the fear of the unknown. Since he was told that the ride home would be uncomfortable but that it was nothing to worry about, Tony concentrated on breathing, still an amazing thing to him.

Somewhere along the line, he had drifted off, and when he woke up, they were on the MD-355. Everything seemed to be a blur to Tony, and so he said, "Aren't ya going a little fast, there, Gunny?"

"Actually," Gibbs said, "I'm going under the speed limit in your honor."

"Huh," Tony said, closing his eyes against the vertigo. "Guess all that time flat on my ass..."

"Couple more mile, and we'll be there," Gibbs told him, noticing the tightness in his face, the pale complexion. He wondered, just for a minute, if they needed to turn around. Nope, they were going forward today, and for the foreseeable future.

He took the corner to Tony's street in an easy, slow turn and rolled along while trying to find a curbside parking spot. Fortunately, one was available just two doors down from Tony's brownstone, and Gibbs took great pains to ease the car into the spot. Once in park, he turned to Tony and waited for the man to make the next move. "Home, DiNozzo."

"I'm not gonna lie, Boss," Tony said, lifting his head off the seat to scan the sidewalk ahead, "there were a couple times when I didn't think I'd see this ol' street again."

"You're here now."

"Then I guess it's time to go home," Tony said, releasing his seatbelt. Gibbs exited the car and jogged to meet Tony at his side. He opened the door, and reached in to help leverage Tony out of the seat, not normally an offer Tony would take, but the ride had tired him more than he thought possible. So he took Jethro's hand, clamped the other to the top of the door, and slowly, carefully pulled himself from the car.

Once standing, Gibbs nodded, patted the man on the shoulder, and said, "Got about fifty feet from the door. Ready?"

"Fifty feet," Tony repeated, knowing exactly how long that was in the CCU's hallway, but it seemed a whole lot more out here on the street. "Yeah. Yeah." He yanked at his collar to straighten it, all the while keeping his focus peeled on his front stoop. His hands rushed over the front of his coat, smoothing it down, a habit he had picked up years ago and hadn't quite lost. He tugged on both sleeves, twisting his hands to make sure the fit was correct. "How do I look?" he asked Gibbs.

"What does it matter?" Gibbs wanted to ask, but he knew this was all part of the process for Tony. So he motioned to Tony's hair, and said, "You need to do that...whatever it is you do to your hair."

Tony's hands went to work, patting down the side, pushing up the front, pressing down the crown. "Good?" he asked, and Gibbs nodded.

"No rush. We'll just take our time," Gibbs told him, pivoting toward Tony's home.

"Yeah. On it, Boss," Tony said, taking the first step toward his stoop, a step that held for him all the hope he kept hidden safe for so long. In his mind, he had envisioned striding toward the door. Oh, he'd probably be a little sore, but all that was behind him. He'd done all that therapy; walked all those yards through the halls of the hospital. Hell, he'd been cleared for steps. What was fifty, measly feet?

His footing was slow, much too deliberate. He kept his chin level, his shoulders back, just like Morgan had taught him-good posture is your best friend. Morgan and his dad would've got along. But no one had told him that even the heft of a wool overcoat would feel like weights pressed into his shoulders, and Tony struggled to maintain his posture.

His sidewalk was quiet this time of the day, and for the lack of hustle and bustle, Tony was thankful. He quickly realized he wasn't ready to take to the street, making a hole through the crowd with the assuredness of his cadence. Those few people who were walking the same path passed the two men without giving any thought to why they were walking so slowly. A woman trailing behind a miniature poodle, festooned in Burberry, sailed around his right, and Tony sighed.

"Ya okay?" Gibbs asked.

"Thought I was walking pretty fast in the hospital," Tony told him, feeling as if he were climbing through snowdrifts. "Guess not."

"We've got all the time in the world," Gibbs said, snaking a hand around Tony's arm, just to make sure.

Two men in their first business suits, fellow trendy inhabitants of the Adams-Morgan neighborhood, eyed the older. silver-haired gentleman walking abreast with the well-dressed younger man, their arms entwined as if on a leisurely stroll, and made the assumption that this was one of "those" couples who helped increase the property tax in the neighborhood. A quick nod of the head as they passed, and Gibbs chuckled, having read their expressions, their furtive glances.

"Did I miss something, Boss?" Tony asked, eyes glued to the thirty feet that separated him from his front door.

"Nope," Gibbs assured him, and increased his hold on Tony's now trembling arm. "You're doin' just fine."

He had run innumerable miles on these sidewalks, had sweated through the summer's blistering heat and winter's penetrating cold, always ending in front of his brownstone, winded but satisfied. He'd smile at the pretty women walking by, careful to show them a little skin, his tight abs, and then he'd take the steps to his door two at a time. At the top, he'd look back to make sure they had watched. Yeah, they watched. They always watched, and he'd offer them a killer smile before whisking inside the building.

These were the sidewalks where he'd come home late from work, a pizza box balanced on one hand, a slice caught between his teeth while he fished through his pockets for his keys, only to buzz one of his neighbors to let him in. They didn't mind. It was nice to have a cop in the building, even if he had a habit of misplacing his keys.

But these sidewalks were a mountain range to him now, a forbidding landscape of cold geography and ascents, and the thin air of this range burned his lungs. Still, he persevered.

"Just about there," Gibbs whispered, and Tony appreciated the acknowledgment that this simple walk to his home was a whole lot harder than either of them thought it might be. And slower. God, demoralizingly slow.

Two more yards, a mere six feet, and Tony was overcome with a distinct sense of achievement. He could look up and see his living room window. He'd made it, something along the way he wasn't at all sure he'd be able to do. Three feet, and he was standing at the base of his stoop.

At the bottom of twelve steps. Crestfallen, Tony squinted his eyes and stared at the uppermost step.

Fifty feet had taken its toll on him, and they had been flat. Twelve concrete steps would... Tony closed his eyes. _Breathe_, he ordered himself.

"DiNozzo?"

He tried to smile, to laugh it off. "When did these steps get here?" he said, convincing no one, particularly not Gibbs.

"Tony?"

"I'm okay," Tony whispered. There were things in life that had to be done, and this was one of them, he surmised. Truth be told, he wasn't at all sure he could do it. Twelve steps.

"Let's just rest a while," Gibbs said, sliding his arm around Tony's back, his hand into Tony's. "How's your pulse?"

Tony pressed two cold fingers against his carotid and felt for the steady thumps. It was slower than he thought it would be, which was good. "Around 80, 90. 'Bout where it should be."

And when he looked over his senior agent, saw how Tony's eyes were sealed tight, how his brow was pinched toward the center, how his Adam's apple rose and fell, how his fingers reached out to strangle the handrail leading up the steps, Gibbs pulled his phone from his pocket, dialed up one number, and waited. Two short tones later, and Gibbs quietly said, "Yeah, why don't you come on down, give us a hand."

If Tony was aware of the call that had been placed, he gave no indication. He held tight to Gibbs and to the handrail, while his mind was elsewhere, on a documentary he and Jeanne had watched about a group of people climbing Mt. Everest. It had bothered him for weeks that a few of the people on the expedition had made the decision to turn back within a stone's throw from the summit. How do you do that? he had wondered. How do you live on a mountain for weeks, months, climbing every damn day, and then decide to turn your back on your goal? They said they had known their limits and that cooler heads had prevailed. Tony had thrown a handful of popcorn at the screen, deriding them. "Ya don't climb Everest with your heads! Ya climb it with your hearts!"

Here he was, within a stone's toss of the top of his world, and Tony was sure he had reached the end of his limits.

"Hey, Boss," came the familiar, soft voice. "Tony."

Tony's eyes snapped open, and there standing before him was Tim. In an instant, the surprise to see his friend was gone and the reason for his appearance was clear. Tony found himself caught between relief for the extra help and shame that he needed it. He looked down to see that Tim had offered him his hand in salutation. Tony released the breath he had unknowingly been holding, nodded his head, pried his hand off the handrail, and placed it, shaking, in Tim's. "How ya doin', Probie?"

"Good," Tim told him, never releasing Tony's cold hand, only shifting his grip. He moved to his friend's side and entwined his arm with Gibbs' across Tony's back. "It's cold out here. What say we get you inside?"

Tony nodded, capitulating to the assistance. Gibbs and Tim did most of the work; Tony only needed to move his feet. His shoulders began to rise, then his hips, and so too, for whatever reason, his eyebrows.

"Oooh," Tony mouthed, the pull and yaw on his ribcage a bit uncomfortable. One foot up, then the other, and they were on their way.

"I hope you're hungry," Tim said, watching Tony's feet shimmy onto the next landing. "Ziva's been cooking all day. Well, for days, really."

"Ziva's here?" Tony asked, lifting his foot, adjusting his grip on Gibbs' hand.

"Yeah. Ziva and Ducky and Abby and... Oh, careful," he said, as Tony's toe caught the edge of one landing.

"DiNozzo?" Gibbs whispered, coming to a stop while Tony found a more solid footing on the step. Tony licked his lip, felt a sheen of perspiration on his neck and forehead, and the cold air immediately cooled him. He breathed through rounded lips and nodded.

"Let's go," he told them.

Tim and Gibbs kept their eyes peeled on the ground, careful to give Tony the room he needed to ascend these concrete steps.

In his grip, Gibbs felt Tony's hand begin to sweat. "You doin' all right?"

Tony lifted his left foot to the fourth step, and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay," which was only marginally true.

Tim shot Gibbs a look, asking without words if anything needed to be done-call an extra person down to help, call an ambulance...

"Come on, McSherpa," Tony said, chiding Tim and bolstering his own flagging resolve.

Tim chuckled, took the next step up, and with Gibbs, did the same for Tony. And the next. "Yeah, so, like I was saying, we're all here, happy to have you home."

"I'm not home yet," Tony reminded him, closing his eyes. "Okay."

"Yeah, but you will be," Tim said, stepping up once more.

"No," Tony said, shaking his head. "I mean, okay, let's take a break."

Gibbs stopped, one foot up, one down, supporting his agent. "How ya feeling?"

Tony thought about minimizing how he truly felt, but why bother? "Little lightheaded."

"Need to sit down?"

Tony closed his eyes; sucked in his upper lip; pulled his hand from Tim's and took his pulse. Still low, remarkably. This was what Morgan had tried to tell him, that the excitement, the expectation of going home was going to be exhausting.

"You'll need to rest, more than you think you do," she had said, having dealt with more than one bullheaded man in her career. "The worst thing you can do is overdo it. This isn't spring training."

He promised her and himself that he would put his pride away during his recuperation, but that did not include sitting on the frozen concrete steps of his brownstone.

"No," he told Gibbs, taking Tim's hand once more. He took a deep breath, then one more, and soon the dizziness subsided. Nodding, Tony said, "I'm okay now."

"You're sure, DiNozzo?" Gibbs said, assessing the agent's condition.

"Yeah, Boss," Tony told him. He lifted his eyes, counted the remaining steps, swallowed hard, and breathed. Five more. Halfway home. Tony gathered his strength and pulled his foot up to that next landing.

Again, the men lifted their friend by the hand, whispering words of encouragement. It was in silence, in concentration that they closed the gap, and when they reached the top of the steps, Tony stopped. Breathed. Pulsed both of their hands. He closed his eyes and put it all away-his exhaustion, his fear, the fatigue and ache in his body. He was just about home, when simple mathematics said he shouldn't rationally be home at all.

The door to his building creaked open, and there standing behind it, her eyes reverently lowered, her long fingers holding fast to the edge of the door, was Ziva.

Tony let go of his friends' hands, thanked them both, reached for the large metal handle on the door, to the stone and wood door jamb, and stepped into the quiet, softly lit vestibule of his apartment building.

"Welcome home, Tony," Ziva said, giving him all the room he needed. Tony let go of the door, took a good look around him, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the diminished light.

Home. Yes, he was home. He turned his face to Ziva, reached out a finger or two, but couldn't for the life of him make his voice work. Ziva touched his hand. Words were unnecessary.

Two more steps, and Tony was outside his apartment door. It too crept open. Tony tilted his head to look inside his home, pushed the door completely open, and smiled.

He had been so used to seeing them all in the various rooms of his hospital stay, that to see them here, in his home, was strange. But here they were-Ducky, with his elbow resting on the kitchen counter, a soft smile gracing his lips; Abby, fairly bouncing, her hands in a tight knot next to her mouth; Palmer, that lopsided grin on his face, inexplicably clapping his hands.

"Relax, Palmer," Tony said, stepping into his apartment, "it's not like a won an Oscar or anything."

Abby was the first to traverse the space between them. "Can I hug you? I mean, like, really hug you?"

"Why do you think I came home?" he said, lifting his tired arms to accept her.

Abby stepped into his embrace, but caught both Gibbs and Tim's gesticulations to be careful. She resolved to keep her hug brief and light. Nothing, however, would stop her from enjoying and imprinting this moment on her heart. She closed her eyes, smiled, sighed. "I'm so glad you're home."

"Me, too," he told her, finding his strength ebbing. "Abby, I, uh..."

Abby released him, and only then saw the fatigue that surrounded him. She took him by the hand and led him to the couch. Gibbs stopped them midway and helped Tony out of his overcoat.

Jimmy Palmer almost gasped at how emaciated Tony had become over the months, and at how the ordeal had seemed to age him. Rather than let Tony see his expression of disconcertion, Jimmy pivoted to meet Tim at the door, ostensibly to shake his hands, but truly to shake off his own rattled soul. Tim patted the man on the shoulder and nodded that he understood.

His friends moved slowly around him, kept their voices low. Ducky, Tony had figured, must have told them how to behave in his presence. From his position seated on his couch in the living room, Tony answered their questions, allowed Abby to place pillows around him, under his arms, under his feet on the ottoman. Light conversation floated around him, only some of which Tony took part in. He accepted a plate with food on it, all of which looked and smelled delicious, but none of which Tony had the appetite to eat. He sipped a glass of milk, in appeasement to Ducky.

"You must keep up your strength, my boy," Ducky said, taking a seat next to Tony, watching the others pairing off in conversation.

"I know, Duck," Tony told him, forcing himself to down the contents of the glass. When it was finished, he handed it to the waiting hands of Ziva, who took it without comment, with only a quick smile and a flash of her dark eyes.

"I am sorry I was unable to come up the last few days," Ducky said. "Doctor Hampton came down with the flu, and I owed her a favor, so I took over some of her duties."

"Nice of you, Duck," Tony said.

"Yes, isn't it," Ducky answered back, quirking an eyebrow, and Tony instantly understood that now Ducky was free to call upon the pretty medical examiner to ask other favors, favors that would include red wine and candles.

"I have much to learn from you, Obi Wan," Tony said. "Oh, hey, remember when I was having those dreams about Jeanne?"

"Yes."

"I think I resolved the issue."

"Pray tell, do explain."

Tony rested his head against the back of his couch, and said, "I watched 'The Wizard of Oz' a couple nights ago."

"And?"

"It's like the Wizard says-'The heart will never be practical until it's made to be unbreakable.'" Tony blinked, his eyes heavy and sore from such a long day. "I broke her heart."

"Yes, but-"

"Maybe this is my penance," Tony said, cutting off his friend.

Ducky frowned and peered at Tony over his glasses. "That hardly seems equitable."

Tony closed his eyes, and said, "At the very least, I know what the dreams are about."

It bothered Ducky that this man still ached for a decision based on orders so many years ago. He wove his arms over his chest, leaned in toward Tony, and said, "I believe a more applicable quote might be 'A heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.' Look around this room, my boy." Tony opened his eyes and begrudgingly took in the scene-Gibbs stealing a second helping of food; Ziva slapping his hand; Tim synching Tony's iPhone with his computer, with Abby's arms coiled around his neck, looking on and offering assistance. Even Jimmy Palmer seemed amused by Tony's new heart-rate monitor. "Perhaps your time in the hospital taught you more about what you _have_ than what you have _lost_."

_These people_, Tony thought, _my friends. What did I ever do to deserve them?_

Ducky watched as Tony's face blossomed with color, as his eyes filled with tears. He stuffed a tissue into Tony's hand and stood up.

Tony wiped the rough tissue across his eyes, and then held it tight to his mouth. A whole life in flux, he pondered. For years, he had lived under the arrogance of entitlement, the selfish, solipsistic mode of his father's world. "I believe in the Golden Rule, Boy," Senior had told him. "And he who makes the gold, rules." The Jesuit brothers at his Catholic boarding school had taught him "Better to give than receive," all while giving him knots on his head from their thick, heavy rings.

But, these people, all gathered to celebrate Tony's homecoming, these people had taught him a harder lesson-the very hard, very deep meaning of appreciation. Gibbs had taught him that, in his own way. If a man can, he gives what he has, not out of obligation, but out of duty to his fellow man. The heart beating steadily inside Tony's chest, allowing him to be in his own home once again, was a constant reminder of what another had selflessly given him. The constant pulse through his body, a constant reminder of his overwhelming appreciation.

It was better to give than receive, Tony decided, because giving was easier. Receiving, well, receiving took real courage.

And so he found himself overwrought by it all. This, too, he had been told might happen-careening emotions out of the blue. Yes, blame it on the Prednisone, the psychology of surviving heart-transplant surgery. But, he knew it also had something to do with how full of appreciation he was, of that breathtaking acknowledgment that people cared about him.

Abby looked up from the computer and caught Tony pressing a white tissue to his eyes. She jumped to his assistance, but Ducky stopped her with a look. Shaking his head, he conveyed to her that Tony needed to be left alone. That he was fine. Gibbs looked on, so did Ziva. A hush came over the room.

"Forty-nine BPM," Jimmy exclaimed, raising his hands in victory. "Beat that!" It wasn't until the quiet that infused the room caught up with him that Jimmy understood what was happening. He looked from face to face, finally settling on Tony's. "Oh. Oh, Tony, I'm..."

"Don't worry about it, Jimmy. Been a long day. Months, really," Tony forced his voice to say, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head. "Forty-nine BPM? That, uh... You might want to get your thyroid checked, Autopsy Gremlin."

Jimmy shifted his attention to Ducky who placed a hand on his shoulder, forgiving him for his outburst. "What did I miss?"

"No more than the usual, Mr. Palmer," Ducky said, gathering his coat. "I believe it is time we allowed Anthony time to rest."

"Yup," Jethro agreed, wiping off his hands on a dishcloth. "Just about that time."

Ducky slung his coat over his arm, and offered Tony his hand. "Something tells me Mr. Palmer's heart rate is beating considerably faster now," Ducky teased in a voice only Tony could hear.

Tony shook his friend's hand, chuckled, and said, "Thanks for being here, Duck."

"I wouldn't have missed this for all the world, Anthony." Clapping his hand on their conjoined hands, Ducky silently offered his acknowledgment of this day's bounty. "Well," he said, taking a deep breath. Ducky slipped into his coat, straightened his posture, and issued forth an order. "Now, do be a good lad-Sleep, even if you're not tired."

Tony nodded, and managed a tight, "Got it."

One last good-natured point of the finger at his friend, and Ducky turned, scowled at his assistant, and said, "If you think you can tear yourself away from the gadgets, I'll drive you home, Mr. Palmer."

"Right, Doctor," Jimmy said, struggling to find the armholes in his coat.

"He's a brilliant anatomist," Ducky said, marveling along with the rest at Jimmy's ineptitude with the simplest tasks. "It's the animated that gives him pause."

Abby and Tim also scrambled to find their coats. After a brief search, Abby realized Gibbs was holding hers open, awaiting her slender arms. "Gibbs," she smiled, gliding into her long, faux-fur coat, "always the gentleman. Thank you, kind sir!"

As much as he wished they would stay, Tony knew sleep was rushing to him. He shoved his fists into the cushions, making an attempt to rise, but Tim stopped him with a broad palm across his shoulder. "Don't get up, Ton."

There was a moment when Tony thought he might dismiss Tim's suggestion that he remain seated. But, when his knees seemed loose, when his elbows trembled from being locked-out, Tony demurred. Nodding, he sat back and simply said, "Thanks for coming, you guys."

"We'll stop in tomorrow," Abby said, handing Tim his coat. "Sleep. And don't forget to eat something. Ziva made some amazing food."

"I will," he told her, his eyes crinkling with a smile.

She cupped his face with her gloved hand and looked deeply into his bloodshot eyes. She thought she should say something meaningful, poetic, philosophical. Something that would cap off this wonderful day. She bit the corner of her ruby lip, blinked, and said, "If you need anything..."

"I know."

"I mean _anything_."

"Got everything I need, right here," Tony told her, patting his chest. "But if I can think of anything else, I know who to call."

Ziva kissed his forehead, a thing he thought he should be inured to, but something about the maternal nature of it, the tenderness always touched him, and always left him unable to speak.

"Glad you're home, Ton," Tim said, touching Abby's arm, gently reminding her that they were trying to get out of the man's home before he collapsed.

Tony cleared the knot from his throat, and said, "Me, too, Tim. Thanks, again, for the, uh...ya know."

Tim waved him off, nodded, and pulled a crooked grin. "Any time."

Gibbs held the door open for the group, shaking hands with them as they left, patting Ducky on the back, a gesture of appreciation. With the door to Tony's apartment still ajar, Gibbs turned, rolled back his shoulders, and said, "You have my number."

Nodding, Tony said, "Yup."

"Don't be afraid to use it."

Tony locked eyes with the man, quirked a tight smile over clenched teeth, and bobbed his head. Words would not come.

And Gibbs understood. He chucked his fingers under his own jaw, winked once, and was out the door.

As if the final ounce of his energy had left with Gibbs, Tony dropped his head to the back of the couch, scrubbed his hands over his face, and sighed.

"Well," Ziva said, propped against the kitchen counter, her arms woven across her chest, "you certainly know how to clear a place."

His hands slid from his face to his chest, and Tony held his breath a moment. Realizing that, no, she hadn't left with the others, he chuckled. Of course she would stay. Why should anything change? "Yeah, the crying jag always does the trick," he said, rubbing his fingers across his eyes. He should be more embarrassed, he thought, and maybe tomorrow he would be, but now, lethargy seeped into his body from every angle. "If that hadn't done the trick, I was going to pull out my family vacation Super-Eights."

"Ah, yes," she laughed, crossing the room, "the video history of you alone in a vast assortment of hotel rooms."

"It wasn't video in those days, my little digital friend," Tony said, closing his eyes. "It was film. You'd be surprised what a cute little boy with a handheld camera can get away with."

She snickered a little, then smiled at him, a tender gesture that told him she could see through the obvious attempt to mask his exhaustion. "Would you like to do this here on the couch, or would you like to move to your bed?"

Tony opened his eyes to look at her. She had set him up for any number of lascivious comments, but he was just too tired. He shook his head, and said, "I think I'll just take a nap here."

Ziva piled the pillows Abby had brought out to him against the armrest of the sofa and began to help Tony shift his position. But Tony held her off, saying, "I got it." However, turning brought more pain than Tony had expected, and his face contorted.

"Tony..."

He held up his hand, stopping her, and tried again. When he began to lower himself, the fatigue of the day coupled by the long car ride home overrode any need for self-reliance. "Yeah, okay," he sighed, and Ziva's hand rushed to cradle his head. He moaned, and she pulled an accent pillow from against the couch and pressed it to his chest. Tony clutched it tight to his sternum, and allowed Ziva to assume the greater portion of the work.

"You have done too much today," she scolded him, resting his head on the pillows.

"Any less, and I would have been at a standstill," Tony told her, trying of his own accord to shift his legs up onto the couch. Ziva took over that responsibility, as well. His breath left him in staccato bursts. "Ooooof. God..." He dug his head deep into the pillow, trying to straighten out his torso. Ziva grabbed hold of his hips and helped to reposition them, which, any other day, would have made him stop and grab her hands, pelting her with a look. Today, it was all he could do to keep his teeth from chattering through the discomfort.

"When's the last time you took some pain medication?" she asked, ripping the afghan from the chair, unfurling it over Tony.

Tony crushed shut his eyes, licked his lips, and said, "Um, I don't know." He concentrated on breathing through his nose, and soon enough, the worst of it siphoned away. "Couple hours before I left the hospital."

"Then you are due," she said, stepping to the kitchen where his medication lined the back of his counter. She had memorized each bottle, had taken it upon herself to know his medications as well as he knew them. Probably better. She grabbed the third vial from the left, shook out one long pill, filled a glass with water, and returned to Tony's side. "Here. Drink this."

"Yes, Boss," he said, downing the pill with the contents of the glass. Once through, he plopped back down on the pillow and closed his eyes. Ziva brought the glass back to the kitchen.

"You don't have to stay, you know," he said, and Ziva wiped her hand on a towel.

"I know, but I'm going to," she told him, returning to his side. She sat on the ottoman, close to him, her hands on her knees. "You shouldn't be alone on your first day out of the hospital."

He opened his eyes and his mouth to contradict her, but had nothing. Reaching out, Tony grabbed one of her hands, and said, "Okay."

"Tony," she said, running her thumb against his cool hand, "how are you?"

He didn't want to burden her with the truth, but he owed her this much. At the very least, he owed her his candor. "I'm overwhelmed...I suppose. My apartment is so...clean."

"Tony..."

"And, between you and me and the wall, I didn't think I'd come home."

Ziva dipped her head, nodding. "I know."

Tony turned, blindly peered into the innocuous corners where walls met ceiling, finding it increasingly difficult to focus, and said, "It's just gonna take some getting used to."

There was something she needed to know. She knew what her answer would be to the same question, but needed to hear Tony's answer. "Are you afraid?"

"Comes and goes," he said, without the obfuscation and fanfare Ziva thought she might hear.

"When does it come?"

"At night. It's always worse at night."

"I know," she said, and he knew she did know. "I can imagine tonight will be difficult."

Although he was well aware analgesics didn't work that fast, Tony felt his body quickly giving into sleep. He closed his eyes, rubbed the heel of his hand over his aching brow, and said, "The thing is... I've spent the last few months hooked up to monitors, having nurses check on me all day and night." His hand dropped heavily to his stomach, and he breathed deep, which made him cough. Which made him ache. Ziva waited for it to pass. "There were times when I would have given anything for them to leave me alone. There were other times when...well, when I was pretty damned happy they were there. I don't have any monitors anymore. It's all up to me, and..."

"That is frightening," she said, nodding her head in sympathy.

"Yeah," he said, knocking their hands to her leg, absently watching their union. "Right up there on the Freak-O-Meter."

"You were near death before you went to the hospital, and yet you were able to monitor your health enough then to stay alive," she reminded him. "Now you are well. Or you will be. This should be a piece of pie."

"Cake," he corrected her. "Cake..."

"Besides," she said, sliding off the ottoman and onto the edge of the couch. She never let go of his hand, only shifted so that she could also encircle his legs, her tired head resting on his raised knee, "what's the worst that can happen?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said, licking his lips, slowly, lethargically, "I could go to sleep one night and pull a Humphrey Bogart."

"Humphrey Bogart died in his sleep?"

"No. Or at least I don't think he did. Can't remember," Tony said, rifling through his hazy memory for Bogie's cause of death. He shook his head, and went on. "No, Bogie was in a movie, 'The Big Sleep.' I was making an allusion to-"

"So you die peacefully in your sleep," she said, sliding her hand under her cheek, cushioning it atop Tony's knee. "We should all go so easily."

Tony thought about her words, about the graceful acceptance of death, and supposed she was right. He cleared his throat, wiped his hand across his face, and said, "Better than being shot in the head."

"Or having your home blown up in an aerial attack."

"Or being asphyxiated."

"Or being stoned to death."

"Or overdosing on rat-poisoned heroin."

"Or having your car fire-bombed."

"Or choking on your own vomit."

"Or... What?" she said, pulling her head off his knees. "Who chokes on their own vomit?"

Tony blinked, then said, "I thought we were talking about the way rock stars died."

"No," she cried.

"What are you talking about then?"

"Common ways in which people die."

"Really was an enchanted childhood, wasn't it?"

Ziva rolled her eyes and raked her fingers across her tight forehead. "Why do I bother?"

"Because," he said, waiting for her to meet his earnest eyes again, "I'm one of your seven."

Ziva's features softened then, and the juxtaposition of this day and that one desperate night took her breath away. She sighed, lowered her voice, and nodded. "Yes," she said. "Yes, you are."

"But you're still going to worry about me," he said, closing his eyes, finding deeper comfort in the pile of pillows.

Ziva folded the edge of the afghan over, away from his face, and admitted, "I suppose I always will."

"You don't need to," he said.

"This is not something I need or do not need to do, Tony," she said. "I simply do. I worry."

Close now to sleep, Tony let go of her hand and draped one arm across her legs. "My therapist told me something. She said that I can't control whether people are going to worry about me, but I can control my own life." He cleared his throat, and began to breathe that shallow, easy breathing of sleep, and when he spoke again, it was a near whisper. "She told me that if I do everything I can to take care of myself, people won't worry about me as much. So, Ziva," he said, opening his eyes one more time to make his friend a promise he intended to keep, "I swear I'll take care of myself. I promise to... do everything I'm supposed to do, and that I'll always be honest with you about how I'm feeling. If I'm worried, I'll tell you. If I'm not worried, I'll tell you that, too." Tony crooked his little finger around Ziva's, and said, "You have my...pinky-promise...promise. I promise."

Ziva grasped onto his words, bit her lip to keep from giggling at how tired he was, and said, "Okay."

"Okay," he whispered, closed his eyes, and let his head drift to the side. "And now, I'm gonna..."

"Go to sleep," she whispered, watching as slumber washed over him, as his mouth slung open, and a peace came to his world. And to hers.

**Epilogue**

With a quick tug on his crisp, white cuffs, a playful smirk plastered to his lips, Tony DiNozzo sauntered out of the elevator and into the bullpen.

Where no one noticed.

It wasn't like he was unexpected. They'd all talked about it, this, the day of his glorious full-time return. Sure, he'd been in two weeks earlier to have his new ID picture taken and to begin working a few hours a day, just to get his sea-legs back, but this was THE day...

He hadn't wanted balloons, or a banner with "Welcome Back, Tony" emblazoned in big, garish letters, but he wouldn't have said no to it, either. He just hoped someone, at the very least, would have met him at the elevator doors.

"Way to make a guy feel welcome, people," Tony said to no one, and when no one answered back, Tony decided to make his own grand entrance.

An attractive young thing with a tight skirt scurried by, her arms full of files, and Tony smoothed down his tie. "Buon giorno," he said to her, and she smiled back. "Come ti chiami?"

The young lady blinked, and said, "I'm sorry. I don't speak Spanish."

Tony laughed, opened his mouth to correct her, but simply breezed on. Leaning a shoulder into the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, Tony said, "Mi chiamo Molto Speciale Vice Direttore Anthony DiNozzo."

"Oh!" she said, jostling her files to free one hand. She pointed to the inner set of desks, and said, very slowly, very loudly, "They. Can. Help. You. Over. There. Over there."

Tony's brow knit in confusion. If this was an example of the new crop of recruits, his job was going to be harder than he thought. Nonetheless, Tony smiled, and said, "Grazie."

When she walked away, when Tony took one furtive glance at her legs, he propelled himself away from the wall, checked the knot in his tie and carried on toward the bullpen desks. If they wouldn't come to him, he'd go to them.

Tony swaggered up to Ziva's cubicle, perched his arms on the wall, and said, "Come stai?"

Without looking up from her computer, Ziva simply answered, "Bene, grazie. E tu?"

Put off, Tony pushed away from the cubicle wall, straightened his back, and strutted into the inner sanctum, an indignant scowl on his well-shaven face. He would not be bested, not on his first day back, so he turned on his heels, leaned over her desk, and said, "Piacere di conoscerla, Ziva David."

Ziva glanced up at him and took a deep, dramatic breath. She splayed her hands on the top of her desk, set her jaw, and said, "Si. Il piacere e mio, Antonio. Ancora." When Tony stood mute, his eyes blinking with confusion, she tilted her head, raised one indignant eyebrow, and said, "Vedo che hai preso lezioni di italiano."

Tony didn't know how to answer her, Ziva's words having sailed by him in a blur. He narrowed his eyes, buried his hands in his suit pockets, and said, "Buono?"

Ziva chuckled, resumed her work on the computer, and told him, "E meglio di una lingua prima dominare."

"You always gotta go there, don't ya, Probationary Agent David," he said, viewing her sidelong and with as much feigned contempt as he could muster. He yanked a pen from the cup on her desk and stuffed it in his breast pocket, just to show her. "And in my mother tongue."

"English is your mother tongue," she reminded him.

"And there too, sometimes, you're a motherless child," Gibbs said, cruising into the bullpen, a fresh cup of coffee in his grasp.

"Morning, Gibbs," Tony said, strolling behind the man, following him to his desk. "I was just regaling Ziva here with my newly acquired language skills."

Gibbs sat down, reached to turn on his computers. He straightened his collar, and said, "Sounds like you could use a few more lessons, there, Molto Speciale Vice Direttore DiNozzo."

Tony's eyes grew wide. Could Gibbs have overheard his conversation with the young woman? Nah... Maybe?

"Hey, Ton," Tim said, taking his seat behind his desk. "I thought I heard your voice."

"Hey, there, McGee," Tony answered back. "I thought I smelled virgin." When Tim looked up at Tony and then at Gibbs, Tony closed his eyes and smacked a hand against his own head. "Can't really say stuff like that anymore, can I?" he asked Gibbs, who was busy taking a call. "Listen, uh, Tim..."

"Welcome back, Tony," Tim said, waving him off, silently reveling in the banter.

Replacing the phone on the cradle, Gibbs said, "You're wanted in MTAC

Caught off guard, Tony chuckled. "Boy, they don't believe in dinner and a movie, do they?"

"Nope," Gibbs said.

Tony took a moment to smooth down his hair, and Ziva and Tim shared a smile. "Probably should get up there, then."

"Yup."

Tony ran a hand across his tie, and headed for the steps. But first, a quick side trip.

"Ah, Wall," Tony said, spreading wide his arms, pressing them to the brushed chrome wall and all the photos attached. "I think I've missed you most of all."

"DiNozzo," barked Gibbs, and Tony jogged to the steps.

"Right," he called back, taking each step with purpose. Knowing Ziva would be watching, Tony raised his voice just loud enough to be heard, and without even the slightest pause in his pace, said, "You'll notice how easily I'm taking these steps, Miss David, and I know you know what that means. Yeah, ya do."

From her desk, Ziva simply rolled her eyes and expressed her disgust. But he had been right. She had been watching Tony climb the stairs, as if eight months earlier he had not been lying on the floor in front of her, life seeping out of him. For this grace, for this return to something like normal, Ziva bowed her head, sighed, and smiled.

And then he was inside the MTAC, striding down the ramp that led to the video screen.

"Good to see you, sir," the tech called out to him.

"Good to be seen, Newsome," Tony answered, taking the center spot in the room. He straightened his tie, rolled back his shoulders, yanked both cuffs of his shirt, and stretched out his neck. One last check to his hair, and Tony motioned that he was ready for the video conference.

The screen crackled to life, each pixel holding tightly to the next. A slightly balding man sat at his desk, engrossed in writing something. Tony cleared his throat, and said, "Good morning, Assistant Secretary McWilliams, I-" A quick upturned palm, and Tony was brought to a halt. Not his first time on this particular circus ride, Tony waited, knowing this was what Gibbs liked to call "pissing to mark your territory" behavior. Tony checked the button on his suit coat, the time on his watch. Shared a look with the Newsome the tech at the desk, and stood his ground. What made it all the more aggravating was this man and Tony had spent a number of years at the same New England boarding school, and the fact that McWilliams was sitting behind a massive, oak desk did not diminish the fact that he remained the same whiney, self-righteous, spoiled over-achiever that he was while he still wore braces and headgear.

Finally, after a good thirty seconds went by (Tony later would tell the others that he caught the Assistant Secretary of the Navy mouthing the countdown), the man looked up, tossed his pen to the desk, and assumed the position of the highly put-out.

"Good morning, Assistant Secretary," Tony said again, narrowing his eyes.

"First day back, I hear," McWilliams said, pulling a file to the center of his desk.

"First full day, yes," Tony told him. "I'd like to-"

"We have a situation involving a petty officer imprisoned in Kabul," he said, flipping pages in the file.

"I've looked through the file, Mr. Assistant Secretary," Tony told him, "and if you don't mind me saying so-"

"I do mind you saying so, DiNozzo," the man said, glaring at Tony through the security of a video link. "We need to get something straight from the get-go about this new appointment of yours."

Tony knew it was coming, the smack-down of supposed subordinates, the rush to assume the alpha-dog position, but since his acceptance of the Director's offer to become the new Assistant Director of NCIS, Tony had been preparing himself for just such a meeting. He crossed his arms over his chest and broadened his stance. "Ya know, Chad," he said, wagging a finger at the man who now shared the same pay-grade as Tony, "although it's true that I serve at the pleasure of this administration, and believe me, it is a pleasure, I do not plan to be a pleasure to work with. Now, I have been placed in this position for a reason, and part of that reason, aside for my obvious good taste, is to be read-in on situations such as the one concerning Petty Officer Derra, as well as to offer my considerable expertise regarding such situations, which, I might add, includes years of field work. You, on the other hand, having been sent to DC by the great citizens of Rhode Island yea these past fifteen years, have never spent a day in the field, and, in fact, I'm fairly certain you wouldn't be able to find the field if your limo skidded off the expressway and landed in it. " The Assistant Secretary of the Navy, eyes afire with anger, began to speak, and Tony stopped him with a dismissive hand. "Now, I know that's hard to admit, but that's the reason I'm here: to help you when you find yourself far afield of your area of expertise, which, if memory serves, is more akin to a polo field. How's your sister, by the way?"

"I don't know who you-"

"It is my goal-no, it is my mission to make sure NCIS is the first agency on your lips when this country is in need of our very special talents," Tony told him, checking his cufflinks. "However, and I do say this with all the respect due to a man who is in his position because his family once supplied schooners for the Spanish-American War efforts, I will help you from letting your considerable lack of experience working under SecNav from putting our agencies and the people within those agencies in harm's way. That, Mr. Assistant Secretary, is why the former SecNav placed me in this position of Assistant Director of NCIS." Leaving McWilliam's broadcasted face for a moment and turning to Newsome, Tony added, "Now that was a guy who knew his fields. Mostly Mrs. Field's Cookies later in his career. He was getting a little fleshy there." Turning back to McWiliams and his furious expression, Tony went on. "My point is-"

"You cannot talk to me like that!"

Tony scoffed, and said, "Actually, I can, and, oh, wait...hold on...What? There it is! I did. Get used to it. Now, I'm going to go back to my office and schedule a time later today when you and I can get down to the business of this petty officer and his case. When we reconvene, we're going to begin this relationship on a more common ground, for the good of those we serve. Chad, you have a spectacular morning." With that, Tony motioned for Newsome to cut the transmission. Once the screen went blank, Tony took a deep breath, checked the knot in his tie, turned to Newsome, and said, "How are the wife and kids, Charlie?"

"Fine, sir," he said, smiling with respect at his new boss. "Thanks for asking."

"Any time," Tony said, striding out of the MTAC.

Once outside the door, Gibbs met him and walked down the steps with him. "How'd it go, Mr. Assistant Director?"

"Oh, you know," Tony said, gliding down the stairway, "he said his thing; I said mine. We admired each other's suit. The usual."

Gibbs smiled a lopsided grin, and at the bottom of the staircase, offered his hand to Tony, "It's good to have you back, Tony."

Taking Gibbs hand, Tony said, "Thanks, Boss."

"I'm not your boss, Boss," Gibbs reminded him, and with a pat on the arm, stepped away from Tony.

Tony stood in amazement at Gibbs' words, the reality of it all, apparently, having not quite settled in. Nonetheless, Tony regrouped, bounded over to Tim's desk, picked up his coffee cup and took a swig. Tim, aghast, looked on nonplussed.

Tipping his head back to hold a mouthful of coffee, Tony garbled, "Is this caffeinated?"

"Yes," Tim growled.

Tony let the coffee dribble back into the cup, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and said, "I forgot. I can't have caffeine. Sorry, Tim."

"I'll try to make it decaf next time," Tim snapped, tossing his coffee into the trash. "Are there any other of your dietary concerns I'll need to self-impose for your comfort, Tony?"

Tony squirted hand sanitizer into his palm, whisked it over both hands, and said, "No, only the one. So, you guys wanna have lunch at around one? My treat."

The three silently assessed each other's willingness and found they were in agreement. "Yeah," Tim said, "that would be great. You can repay me for the coffee."

"Thank you, Tony," Ziva said, with a quick, shallow bow of her head.

"Don't thank me, thank McGee. I've never had this much money in my... Well, at least in the last twenty years," Tony said, moving with ease and grace through the bullpen. "Oh, and, Ziva, wear that Vera Wang number."

Narrowing her eyes, a coy smile on her lips, Ziva said, "Is that an order, Mr. Assistant Director?"

"Probably one of those 'red-light' moments, right, Gibbs?" Tony asked.

"Oh, they don't come much redder, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, rifling through his files.

"Right. Have to remember that for the future," Tony said, his forehead pinched in concentration, his hands deep in his suit pockets. He turned to Ziva, and asked, "How about if I wear it?"

"Then I'll sue you and the agency for creating a hostile work environment," Tim said.

"Reporting for duty, Director DiNozzo," came the voice behind him.

After a quick, stylized half-pirouette, Tony found Abby saluting him, her pigtails flapping from side to side. "That's Assistant Director, Abs, and it's not appropriate to salute me."

"Then, can I, like, hug you?"

"Well, I'd have to check the protocol books, but..." Before he could finish his sentence, Abby's arms were locked around his neck, almost toppling him. Tony laughed, regained his balance and hugged her back. "This is all I ask, people. Would it have killed you to show a little love my way?"

"Don't say that," Abby said, disengaging her embrace to point a finger in his face. "There will be no more use of the 'K' word in this...general vicinity," she said, motioning to the area around Tony's former desk.

When Ziva understood to what she was referring, she said, "It's only a piece of carpeting, Abby."

"One that should have been removed," Abby told her, stomping on that spot where Tony laid so many months ago.

Tony wrapped an arm around her shoulder, telling her, "I'll make it my first order of business. That, and a cappuccino maker in the break room."

"Oooh, I like me the new BADOC," Abby said, her eyes a flirtatious, subversive squint.

"BADOC?" Tony asked.

Tim hated himself for knowing what it meant, but supplied the answer anyhow. "Big Assistant Director on Campus. Although, Abby, in this case it should really be 'on Base.'"

"BADOC, BADOB, I'm gonna let you make that call, Probie, but know that I'm good with either one," Tony said, leaning against his former desk. "So, one o'clock for lunch?"

"Sure!" Abby told him.

"Not if you don't let us get our work done, Mr. Assistant Director." Striding away from the bullpen, Gibbs crooked his finger over his shoulder, and called out, "Abby, you're with me."

"Okay, so we'll catch-up over lunch," Abby said, clomping her way to the elevator doors.

"Come on!" Gibbs said, holding the doors open for her.

"One o'clock. My treat."

"Welcome home!" she managed to yell before the doors to the elevator closed.

Smiling, Tony sauntered over to the stairs. "Good to be home," he said to himself. Halfway to the middle landing, Tony turned to the bullpen and said, "Okay, people, let's be careful out there." When a few audible groans issued forth from the cubicles, Tony tried again. "How about-Let's keep the streets safe for seamen and... Yeah, I can see how that wouldn't work." Continuing his ascent of the metal stairway, Tony snapped his fingers, turned near the top, and said, "Here-NCIS: We handle our privates with care."

"Mr. DiNozzo," the Director said, appearing out of nowhere at the top of the steps. "A word in my office."

"Absolutely. Right away, sir. I was just on my way there," Tony told him smiling, finding his palms beginning to sweat. Down below, Tim and Ziva labored to control their laughter.

Once at the top of the stairs, Tony leaned against the railing, looked down at the bullpen, at his team, at that particular spot on the carpeting where Ducky and Gibbs had kept him alive, at his now empty desk, and shook his head. Who would have ever thought how his life would change in the matter of a year? Certainly not Tony. And for that change, for all the miracles, both big and small, practical and impractical, that had come to his life in the last year, Tony was humbly grateful.

Standing on the mezzanine of NCIS, about to enter this next chapter in his life, Tony took one more moment to look over the bullpen, and when he did, he realized another advantage of having an office upstairs.

Seated at her desk, an awareness washed over Ziva, which piqued her curiosity. There was a disturbance around her, and she scanned the area. Her attention flew to the floor above, where Tony stood, smiling down at her, his hands cantilevered over the railing, his feet crossed. He cocked an eyebrow her way, and her eyes flew to the buttons on her shirt. She made quick work of buttoning the one that had left her decolletage so carelessly exposed, and then glared at him, murderous intent in her eyes, and he just crowed, tossing back his head in laughter. Perks of the position, he thought to himself, pushing away from the railing, still amused by Ziva's reaction.

Strutting toward the Director's office, Tony straightened his tie, and said, "Ah, yes. It's good to be the Assistant Director."


End file.
